BALD WENDY
by
DODO BOOKS
First published in
by
Dodo Books 2008
Copyright © Jane Palmer 2008
This
is a work of fiction and any
resemblance to persons living or dead is purely coincidental.
The author asserts the moral right to be identified
as the author of this work.
ISBN
978-1-906442-18-7
All right reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced,
stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form or by any means, electronic,
mechanical, photocopying, recording or otherwise, without the prior permission
of the publisher, nor be otherwise circulated in any form of binding or cover
other than that in which it is published and without a similar condition being
imposed on the subsequent purchaser.
Science fiction & Supernatural Fantasy books by
this author
THE PLANET DWELLER
MOVING MOOSEVAN
THE KYBION
THE ATON BIRD
CHAPTER
1
Merryweather’s exploded in a ball of fire.
Tiles from its antique roof landed in Victoria Park’s lake and the inside of
the butcher’s shop glowed like an Aga at Christmas, its enamelled tiles
falling, one by one, into the inferno like swotted moths.
Those ducks that hadn’t already been frightened off by the skirling
sirens and clattering of hydrants took to the air before the smoke billowing
across the lawns engulfed them. House martins performed an aerial ballet about
the conflagration that was briefly punctuated by a blast of steam as the water
in the loft tank vaporised.
Most of the houses in
The conflagration had been so sudden
none of the customers could pinpoint the seat of the flames. All they
remembered was a rush of hot, smokeless air, and Mr French, the butcher’s assistant,
ushering them out clutching their liver, chops, and joints as he locked the
till and phoned the fire service.
An elderly woman holding a carton of
chicken mince for her neurotic cat had refused to move since the fire started.
‘But I’m sure Mr Merryweather
was in there!’ she wailed.
‘It’s all right Mrs Jenkins,’ the
community constable reassured her. ‘The other customers say he was out the back
at the time. They’re checking the gardens and park. He’s bound to be safe
somewhere.’
The old lady kneaded the carton of
mince in agitation. ‘No! No! No! He was showing Mrs Niblock
the locket Una wanted mending.’
A friend, eyes smarting from the
smoke, tried to comfort her. ‘Don’t you upset yourself, Minnie.
As soon as Mr French got us out he checked the parlour.’
‘Then why haven’t they been found?’
insisted the old woman.
A fireman heard the outburst and
caught the constable’s glance with a nervous shrug.
For some while the clink of tiles dropping through the floors and the
nauseous stench of burnt meat pervaded the area around Victoria Park.
The police found Una
Merryweather between the aisles of pansies and
petunias in the local garden centre. She was told, as gently as possible, that
her home and the family business had burnt down. It took several cups of tea
and five cigarettes before reality came back into focus, and she realised that
she was sitting in the comfort lounge at the police station, talking to a
plain-clothes officer with good looks that should have been illegal. He was
investigating the possibility of arson but, as the middle-aged woman gradually
became more fixated on him than the matter in hand, Una
Merryweather was discreetly left with a bright-eyed
young woman who had probably dealt with nothing more serious than lost poodles.
She had certainly never had to break the news of a missing loved one.
‘We can’t find your husband, or Mrs Niblock. We’ve been told they went into the back parlour to
look at a locket of yours, but Mr French says they weren’t there when he
checked.’ She took a deep breath. This was quicksand without the stepping
stones of a training manual. ‘Is it possible they could have gone off somewhere
together?’
The insinuation brought the
butcher’s wife crashing back to earth. ‘Of course not!
Deirdre and me are the best of friends. She’s got a
husband who dotes on her. And why would a vegetarian run off with a butcher?’ Una took a sip of lukewarm tea. ‘I never kept my locket in
the parlour. Frank didn’t pay any attention to things like that, but Deirdre
knew it was in the bedroom, in the drawer with my stockings.’
The young PC’s
jaw dropped; if the couple had been upstairs, now she had two fatalities to
deal with.
Una Merryweather had been a widow before. She pulled off her
hat and thoughtfully parted the threads of its tassel. ‘It’s all right. I’ve
lost most of my family at some time or other. The business used to be my
father’s. I inherited it when he died in a car crash ten years ago.’
The policewoman was nonplussed by
her diffident manner. ‘But, your husband - aren’t you...?’
‘Upset? Oh yes. But I’ve buried
better men. You save your sympathy for Mr Niblock. He
married Deirdre when they were teenagers, and they’ve not been apart for
thirty-five years. Only albatrosses know devotion like that.’
***
Fire
prevention continued to puzzle over the ferocity of the fire. Despite the shop
being tiled, newly rewired, and Una Merryweather being careful not to use flammable fabrics,
they were unable to work out the seat of the fire.
Then the fire service decided it was
safe to lift the carbonised roof timbers. Under them they found the remains of
two people.
***
A
group of men stood at the end of
Only after the local onlookers had
tired of the spectacle and filtered away, were two body bags carried from the
debris of Merryweather’s.
‘Tragic,’ one of the strangers
muttered without much conviction.
A neat man in a grey trench coat was
more businesslike. ‘He was the last obstacle. Now the remaining residents in
A large man with the deadly smile of
a hippo was examining some papers from his briefcase. ‘Once we explain our
redevelopment plans for the park and town centre, no one will object. Then we
can condemn this street and Victoria Park as public safety hazards. After all,
that bread left for the ducks only encourages vermin, the pavilion is full of
down and outs, and the toilets - Do you know what goes on in the toilets?’
A tall, distinguished looking man
standing a little way off from the gathering didn’t share their enthusiasm.
‘No. I wonder that you do, Mr Grablatt.’
‘Councillor
Makepeace, why must you be the only one unable to see the benefits of breathing
new life into a derelict area that should have been razed years ago?’
‘The only reason this area is
derelict is because you persuaded the council not vote the funds to revitalise
it as the local community requested.’
‘Cutbacks.
Did you want to see us rate capped like all the other councils who believe
every deserving cause should be serenaded by a full orchestra when they really
need to be drummed out of the back door?’
‘And your little scheme is not going
to cost us a penny, Mr Grablatt?’
The large mouth beamed wide enough
to swallow an elephantburger. ‘Gideon Enterprizes will supply the shopping centre. All we do is
make a few concessions and provide the land.’
‘Worth a rental
value of millions per annum.’
‘
CHAPTER
2
Una Merryweather read the
notes attached to the flowers placed before the remains of her family’s
business. At that moment she had nothing left in the world but a few credit
cards, full board in a guesthouse for as long as she needed it, and a pot of
bright yellow pansies.
The shock had long since worn off
and with the insurance money she was almost indecently looking forward to a new
life in the small fishing town where she and her husband had intended to
retire. An overpowering man, Frank Merryweather had
demanded that the world revolve round his mountainous frame. Now Una was able to stop running in circles, she could smell
the moss roses left to run wild in Victoria Park and hear the squirrels
squabbling in the branches of larch. Of course, she would have to keep up the
act for some time yet and graciously accept condolences, secure in the
knowledge that she wouldn’t be around to be slowly marginalised as a widow.
Having already been married to a grocer and butcher, what was wrong with trying
out a redundant fisherman?
Una looked
across the park. Through its damaged wooden walls, she could see something
going on inside the derelict boathouse. A man wearing climbing tackle and a
safety helmet was waiting while another with a silenced pneumatic drill
tunnelled into its floor. She arched her neck to try and see more, and then
felt that it was too early to show curiosity in such humdrum things as
municipal maintenance. The workmen were probably only checking the sewers.
Una
selected a long stemmed rose from the flowers, gathered up her carrier bag of
toiletries and returned to the High Street to brave the sympathetic glances.
***
The Moltonford council chamber was surprisingly well attended,
and the public gallery packed. Having failed to see modest redevelopment
schemes approved, Neville Grablatt’s proposal for a
brand new shopping centre seemed an even better idea to the campaigning
residents.
Of course, Councillor Makepeace
radiated disapproval at the scheme, as he had done when speculators tried to
muscle into Moltonford a decade before. Unfortunately
he couldn’t put into words what was so worrying about this new development,
apart from it being proposed by Neville Grablatt.
There was an air of nobility in
Conrad Makepeace’s slightly stooped presence, like a self-effacing cricketer’s
about to be called to hit the winning six. His eyes were the same milky silver
as his hair and it came as a surprise to hear that deep voice resonate from
someone with such a narrow chest. Despite his crusading spirit, he possessed a
calmness that persuaded people to trust him. Ex Inland Revenue, the councillor
had a nose for projects that were not quite what they seemed.
It would have been pointless him
getting up to confront Neville Grablatt, the champion
of the huge shopping mall, to try and block his scheme. There were more grounds
for complaint it being called Palace Parade, as not even the second cousin of a
monarch had ever stopped in Moltonford to use one of
their pink and cream urinals. Now the town could become the centre of the
driving shoppers’ universe. Gideon Enterprizes was
American based; they liked the regal overtones and believed that no one could
shop without a wheel at each corner. They had even designed, at great
expensive, a rather vulgar crown that would no doubt appear over every
entrance. Makepeace thought it should be called “Tacky Alley”. As there was
nothing he could do to outsmart the menacingly ebullient Grablatt,
he closed his eyes and dozed. Perhaps something would crop up at the committee
stage.
He woke as Grablatt
was coming to the end of his triumphal speech.
‘Oh, my God,’ Makepeace groaned to
himself. ‘They’ve passed it. Where will the ducks and down and outs go now?’
The avuncular rumble of Neville Grablatt’s voice was deceptively genial. ‘And, bearing in
mind government policy to discourage the building of out of town supermarkets,
this development will house everything - and so much more - than other shopping
complexes. There will no longer be any need to search for somewhere to park or
struggle through the pouring rain and biting wind to buy life’s essentials, or
stand in endless queues at the post office when there’ll be a counter in the
same store where you purchase your loaf.’
Another scenario loomed before
Conrad Makepeace. The man wasn’t only going to plough up Victoria Park, he was going to back the closure of the local post
offices as well.
Even the mousy mayor, vice chair,
clerks, and chief officers had been spellbound by dreams of credit card heaven
and Grablatt was too full of himself to be put off by
one disapproving scowl. ‘This is the future. The centre of our town will be
protected from the elements, cushioned from the threat of street crime, and
cater comfortably for everyone who needs to shop.’
There was enthusiastic applause from
the public gallery and Conrad Makepeace half expected to hear the sound of pile
drivers at any moment. From then on, it looked as though the champion of worthy
causes would have to content himself with putting to rights the gripes he heard
in his weekly surgery about the drains, traffic calming schemes, and barking
dogs. Now the development had been approved, any debate about municipal
incompetence would be edged out of council business by discussions on the
colour of the paving bricks to pattern the forecourt of Palace Parade.
The meeting broke up and Conrad
Makepeace’s prostate insisted he pay a call before leaving the town hall. It
was late and the bar had closed, so he wended his way past the enthusiastic
groups of councillors and Palace Parade supporters and through the darkened
lounge to the men’s toilets. As he returned, he fumbled inside his wallet to
find his member’s card for the car park. Tugging it out, his family photos
spilled across the bar counter and over the other side. Not knowing where the
light switch was, Makepeace was obliged to get down on all fours and fumble for
them.
Having retrieved the snapshots of
his grandchildren, the councillor was about to pull himself up when he heard
voices. One of them belonged to Neville Grablatt. The
instincts of the tax inspector kicked in and he ducked back down out of sight.
Makepeace didn’t recognise the
businesslike voice of Grablatt’s companion. ‘I told
you, Gideon is not going to commit without that surveyor’s report.’
There was the familiar gurgle of
perplexed amusement that resembled some huge carnivore digesting its prey. ‘I
keep telling you not to worry. He’s in the bag. You heard the vote. No one can
pull back now, not even if Makepeace besieged the town hall with tanks.’
‘There’s too much at stake here.
Gideon isn’t going to bring in plant before planning permission.’
‘And you will have it.’
‘And we don’t want any trouble with
the local builders.’
‘There’s only one firm of any size,
and that’s run by a woman. They never tackle anything more ambitious than the
odd clinic.’
‘I heard they built a multiplex in a
neighbouring town?’
Grablatt
grunted contemptuously. ‘Oh that. Only some humdrum
entertainment complex for a council estate.’
The councillor’s business associate
was obviously thinking something over. ‘Has there ever been trouble between you
and this woman?’
Grablatt
sounded as though his estranged wife had accused him of going through her
purse. ‘Trouble? What possible trouble could there
have been between me and a local builder?’
‘Because if there has, she might
feel inclined to start asking questions.’
‘Suspicious or not, Mrs Zelinski can find out nothing. This is a tight operation.
Do you think I wouldn’t cover my tracks when dealing with a scam on this
scale?’
The two men had reached the
emergency exit and pushed its bar.
‘By the way, you don’t know who
burnt out that butcher’s, do you?’
Then, to Makepeace’s frustration,
the door slammed behind them.
CHAPTER
3
At approximately half past
four the previous Tuesday, life had paused for Preston Niblock.
Reality still seemed light years away, as though he had been nudged sideways
into a different dimension where existence had a watery quality.
The jeweller watched the burly long
distance lorry driver make token swishes at Deirdre’s bric-a-brac with a duster
as though he could waft away the ghosts clinging to her memory. The unlikely
spectacle only heightened the unreality. Of well meaning souls, the husband of
Barely five foot
five, Preston Niblock had always been smart, though
not dapper, and never wore his trilby at an angle. His cuff links could have
been ruby and gold; instead he chose garnet. He preferred not to advertise his
jeweller’s skills with what he considered vulgar display. Finding that life
wasn’t so predictable after all had not persuaded him to review the way he saw
the world; that would probably happen when the shock wore off.
To avoid confronting his grief,
Ben looked at the alabaster carriage
clock on the mantelpiece. It was a quarter to six. He boiled the kettle then
filled a tray with sandwiches and chocolate biscuits in the hope
Ben, whose presence could intimidate
the most seasoned of picketing French farmers, tended to tower like a benign
monolith and his chin always wore a five o’clock shadow regardless of how often
he shaved. He had probably been a good-looking rogue when younger until Fran,
and life in general, gave him a thorough going over. All that remained was a
sly twinkle in the eye, the tattoo of a mermaid called Samantha, and the
occasional stab of pain that made him clutch the small of his back where twenty
five years on the roads of
By the time Fran arrived Ben had
persuaded
She took off her coat and waited
while Ben washed up, secretly watching
‘Do you remember that time the four
of us went to
Reality still hadn’t appeared on the
horizon, so
‘Deirdre and me
went to see this fortune teller while Ben tried to beat that Test Your Strength
machine.’
‘He did too.’
Fran hesitated.
She took his hand. ‘I never believed
in all that mystic rubbish myself, but Deirdre was a sucker for it.’ She
swallowed hard before admitting, ‘That fortune teller said she was going to die
young.’
‘She’s fifty-two.’
‘So Deirdre took out life
insurance.’
‘She never told me?’
‘Did you tell her about yours?’
Fran took a letter from her shoulder
bag. ‘It’s a lot of money,
He pulled his hand free. ‘I don’t
want it.’
‘I know it doesn’t matter to you
now, but it’s best you sign this all the same.’
‘No.’
‘It’s what Deirdre wanted.’ Fran put
a Biro in his hand and guided it to the document. Shakily he signed his name.
‘Good lad. Una Merryweather
is moving to the coast on her insurance. Why don’t you think about a holiday?’
‘Without Deirdre?’
‘We can come with you.’
‘Ben has already lost a week’s money
running around after me and you can’t leave the garden centre to run itself. I’ll be all right.’
Fran sat back and looked at her
brother-in-law. For a moment he sounded as though he meant it.
***
Conrad
Makepeace rapped the borough engineer’s door. During weekdays its reception was
usually open to field inquiries about leaky drainpipes on municipal buildings,
blocked storm drains, and potholes in car parks. There was no reply, so he took
out his glasses and read the tiny writing on the notice pinned to the door.
‘Due to pressure of engagements, this office will be closed to the public until
further notice. All enquiries can be made on the following phone and fax
numbers.’ Below was a list of answerphones that would
take messages for everyone from the chief engineer to the office cat. The
paranoia Makepeace was trying to fight back told him that they were probably
plotting with the planning and architect’s offices. Common sense insisted that
they were bound to be busy after the announcement about the shopping mall, and
nothing could happen until the borough surveyor had made his report. And if any
of them were in the pocket of a corrupt councillor, he was no longer a tax
inspector who could demand to see their books.
But what about the
fire at Merryweather’s? Two people had died
and those instincts that had once led him to the dodgy receipt or embezzled
millions were beginning to whisper “murder” into the councillor’s reluctant
ear. Despite being sure that the fire wasn’t an accident, fire prevention were
unable to say how it had started because the heat was so fierce it would have
destroyed the traces of any propellants.
Then there was Preston Niblock. Conrad Makepeace had been acquainted with him for
years. The jeweller had always engraved the names on his golf club’s cups and
mended many a family heirloom. How could he allow the man to believe that his
wife had been murdered?
CHAPTER
4
A
flock of pigeons pecking at a discarded beefburger
took to the air and the occasional rabbit bounced from the overgrown hedges,
wheeling this way and that in terror before disappearing into the neighbouring
gardens. As the chain saws chewed through the trunks of their homes, squirrels
angrily chucked at them. Larch cones cascaded down and, despite the risk to her
perm, Linda Furnival darted in to collect the best
branches for her flower arrangements. She secretly mourned the loss of her
lovely, unkept park, yet for a shopping mall she
would even forgive the council its road calming schemes.
Although planning permission had not
yet been granted, there was nothing to stop the council felling trees or draining
the lake. In the unlikely event of Gideon pulling out, Victoria Park could
always be concreted over for skateboarders and car parking.
From
a huddle of old raincoats and plastic bags in the derelict pavilion, three
apprehensive faces watched. Their home may have been leakier than the
squirrels’, but it had kept them from the worst of the snow and wind. Now where
would they go? Not into the town centre where the other down and outs were
territorial and always drunk. As Merryweather’s had
burnt down, the rest of the houses in
Half a dozen duck catchers waded
about the shallow lake trying to snare the birds whose protests could be heard
in the High Street. A small band of onlookers gradually became a protest group,
hurling imprecations at the abductors, even though they were trying to save the
lives of the stupid creatures. Fortunately the lake hadn’t been large enough to
accommodate swans. For novices, ducks were difficult enough to handle.
The bird catcher’s supervisor had
been watching from the paddleboat jetty and came over to discretely ask the protesters
whether they really wanted a shopping centre. His team was immediately left in
peace to box the ducks and send them to a bird sanctuary where the geese would
give them something to really quack about.
The Victorians had intended the
shallow lake to be the focus of a pleasure garden in which children could
safely sail boats and nannies wheel their charges. For many years it had been
just that but now, many fancying a stroll past the philadelphus,
weigela and moss roses, wanted somewhere to park. It
was easier to drive the dog to the downs several miles away where their owners
could sit in the car and watch their pooches defecate as they smoked and
listened in comfort to the cricket.
Most children had deserted the
playground for that all dancing, all singing, inter-active box in the corner
that did their homework and provided monsters to zap. So only the vandals
showed interest in the swings, seesaws, roundabout, and slide, leaving
dangerous metal stumps that had to be removed. The gate carrying the notice
about talking to strange men swung in the breeze, until an even stranger man
knocked it off its hinges with a sledgehammer. The remains of the fence were
quickly dismantled and rubberised surfaced ripped up.
Then the dredger arrived to remove
the murky contents from the lake. A cover was taken off a nearby manhole and
the water pumped into it until nothing of the lake remained but a deep layer of
sediment, weed, and several items that had failed the audition for Cash
Converters.
The pavilion was left until last.
Mabel, Alice, Hector, and Jenny had
been comrades against the wide world in which they drifted; jetsam rejected by
the virtuously employed and well off. Because they were inoffensive, in the
main, and advanced in years they had been allowed to shelter in lock up garages
and the occasional outhouse, though they had always returned to the derelict
pavilion in the park. Because Moltonford Council had
refused to approve the scheme that would have revitalised the area, it had
stood mouldering away, giving shelter to the pigeons and doughty companions.
Now Jenny was gone.
Jenny was a small, happy soul with
no hang-ups or personal monsters. She had been born on the road and, when her
family stopped travelling, had set out in her own camper until some council
impounded it. The open air was her friend, and her only craving for material
things was clothes. The last the others had seen of Jenny was when she had gone
to collect a bag of cast-offs that would have helped them through another
winter, and she wouldn’t have run off lugging that with her. Hector might have
done because of his tenuous grip on reality, and
Two social workers eventually turned
up to offer
Rotten to its foundations, the
pavilion crumpled at the nudge of an excavator. The wood was burnt where it
fell, casting another pall of smoke over the district and leaving nothing but
the tiled floor donated by some Victorian benefactor. Moltonford’s
museum would have found storage space for it somewhere if someone had bothered
to notify them what was happening.
Then metal jaws turned to the
remains of
Given so many people had the craving
to meander miles of supermarket shelving and see the ultimate in fitted
kitchens, planning permission was promptly granted so the heart of Moltonford could beat in time to the footsteps of the
consumer.
In Victoria Park, a scraper and
three crawler dozers tore up the topsoil which was ferried away by a convoy of
articulated loaders to cover the grounds of some executive director’s barren
estate. Then rippers and drills moved in to break up the pathways and
boathouse’s landing bay.
After the decades of sediment had
been dredged from the shallow lake, its concrete bed was also broken up and
carted away for use as hard-core. The park’s trees had never been properly
cared for and allowed to develop diseases and burr, so they were felled and
burnt, watched from distant roofs by resentful starlings, and pigeons still
trying to work out what was going on.
All the gardens backing onto the far
side of Victoria Park were halved to accommodate an access road, and an old
cinema and office block demolished. The landlords, who owned the jumble of
offices, lock-up shops and restaurants in the centre of Moltonford,
were paid generously to relocate, and their premises soon added to the brick
dust billowing up and down the valley. When the demolition was complete, a
swathe had been cut through the centre of the town as though some terrible
juggernaut had ripped out its heart.
It was at this point that the owners
of the shops in the adjoining streets started to wonder whether Palace Parade
was going to be so good for their trade after all. They had assumed that the
complex would bring more people into the town’s centre. That was before seeing
the final plans for the monster shopping mall. What they had been given to
believe would be an open air shopping centre with a covered precinct, was now
six storeys high with a glass roof to hermetically seal the customers from
contamination by specialist outlets. It had just been a matter of moving a few
key lines on a plan that was displayed for public perusal in the foyer of the
council chamber, mostly inaccessible due to staffing cuts, so no one noticed
until it was too late. Neville Grablatt’s project was
now a huge bubble to blissfully beckon people away from the real world.
CHAPTER
5
As
she gossiped on the phone, Mary Bell gazed out at the tropical, turquoise ocean
rippling like a sheet of thin silk. From the veranda of the mansion she could
imagine turtles, manta rays, and the fish of the coral reef engaged in their
life and death tango. Shoals of shimmering darts waltzed in the shallows like
banners being continuously unfurled and sea birds hammered into the water,
seizing lunch for their chicks. Catering to the strange whims of Julius Tucker
the third was worth it just to bask in these exotic wonders. If paradise hadn’t
existed, he would have probably paid someone to invent it.
‘You should be here Angie, it’s
beautiful. It’s not like the house we had in the
‘As long as he keeps sending the
alimony, I’ll be happy with
Mary Bell resisted the urge to
giggle. Though Julius Tucker didn’t monitor her calls, she would have felt
ungrateful. With the gifts he had lavished on the model, she could have bought
her own island. ‘Oh Angie, I wish we could meet once in a while, but I don’t
know what Juli would say? Would he be mad if he
thought we got on?’
‘Probably give us a medal each. He’s
a funny man. Blows hot and cold over stupid things.
Someone with his money can afford to be eccentric, and then some.’
Mary Bell saw a launch drawing up to
the jetty. ‘My taxi’s just arrived. I’m going shopping.’
‘Have fun kid.’
Mary Bell always had fun shopping.
She was genetically predisposed to pull out the plastic and purchase anything
that glittered, jiggled suggestively, or fitted her.
She put on a flimsy, fluttery frock
and huge sun hat. As she teetered down to the jetty in her sling back heels to
the launch, even the gulls stopped fishing to watch, and the pilot had to keep
reminding himself that he had seven children and very well paid job for a
billionaire. Losing them for the sake of a quick grope would not have been a
good move.
In a back room of the beach mansion,
an architect paced round the scale model of his latest creation. He hated the
thing, resenting the very balsa wood and styrene wasted to build it. He was an
artist and should have been designing opera houses, libraries, art galleries -
even the odd hospital. If the people who mattered realised that he had been
responsible for this monstrosity he would never again be asked to create
anything more adventurous than the kennels for a dog hotel. But this was a
world where money was everything and professional integrity easily bought. He
only hoped that anyone who went shopping in Palace Parade didn’t share his
ascetic sentiments.
Many aspiring architects might have
been pleased with this creation of glass in which the escalators criss-crossing
its interior resembled the teeth of gleaming rip-saws, and where cantilevered
galleries were suspended like the running boards of some heavenly chariot
crammed with cornucopian wonders. This architect had seen it all before.
Enclosed shopping malls should have been consigned to the society’s rubbish tip
decades ago. Then, try telling that to someone whose only thrill in life was
watching soaps and filling in lottery numbers.
Just before the sun went down, Mary
Bell returned with a launch full of shopping. Lace edged pillow cases for their
new love nest in
Many might have said that Mary
Bell’s passion to purchase was due to some insecurity. Deep down, the model
knew that she was really looking for that elegant Art Nouveau bracelet her
mother always used to wear, and all these other things just seemed to get in the
way. Five years ago that heirloom had been stolen from the family home and was
never recovered. Now her mother had a terminal illness. Julius Tucker paid for
an expensive nursing home and treatment that would give her several more years,
and would have happily commissioned a copy of the jewellery, but Mary Bell was
determined to replace the bracelet herself. It was the best way she could think
of to show her love for a woman who had given up so much for her air-headed
daughter.
CHAPTER
6
If
there is any beauty in a cremation, it is in not having to cluster around a
grave and give everything you had ever cared for to the muddy sod. Fire had
killed Deirdre Niblock, so it was only fitting that
it should consume what was left of her.
Preston Niblock
felt as though he was going to float away on the perfume of the white and pink
blooms that crowded the crematorium chapel. Fran was the local expert in
arranging flowers for weddings, functions, and funerals. It was an ironical
tribute to a woman who preferred the garden to be filled with forget-me-nots
sooner than her sister’s penstemons and petunias.
Deirdre had been so different from Fran,
As he was well sedated, the
congregation took the chief mourner’s serene demeanour to be strength of
character, not Prozac. Behind the impassive mask,
The jeweller sensed that the
Universe was reading his thoughts. He had never felt so terrified of being
found out. Even the flowers started to take on a life of their own, linking
fronds to sway to the rhythm of the excavators only two streets away, and without
so much as a stem of cannabis amongst them.
At the back of the chapel, Conrad
Makepeace wondered what was going through Preston Niblock’s
mind. Would the jeweller have been so tranquil if he knew the truth about his
wife’s death? Well versed in the ways of such occasions, the councillor
realised that the chief mourner was probably feeling very little at that
moment. This service was for that monster, convention.
Una Merryweather was there, untranquillised
and dabbing her eyes, more for her friend than husband. So were the Silvestri family who owned the health food store, Lucy Tribble the beadworker, Winston
and Mercy Cuffe who owned Riotous Records, Monty
Golden the bespoke tailor, Mr Singh the shoemaker with his wife, and many other
shopkeepers from what was left of the town centre. At the very back of the
chapel, trying not to look businesslike, were two plain clothes policewomen. Watching them from across the aisle, Councillor Neville Grablatt. Filled with an urge to reach for the man’s
thick throat, Makepeace closed his eyes and thought of cold marble.
The funeral breakfast was laid out
in one of the conservatories at the garden centre.
Fran and Deirdre’s father had been a
grain merchant. Preferring flowers, Fran used her inheritance to set up a horticultural
business years before buying plants became the Sunday substitute for Church and
gardening programmes in colour had triggered ambitions in people once content
to watch daisies invade the lawn. As soon as they had developed the compulsion
to rake, feed and aerate their grass, then surround it with tubs of bamboo and datura, her turnover rapidly expanded. Now television had
progressed and opened up luxuriant vistas to the window box minded. Fran had to
anticipate the demand for trellises, artificial stone mix and F1
hybrids like a supermarket stocking up with ingredients after a programme of
Delia Smith recipes.
While the guests discreetly guzzled,
munched, and made small talk, surrounded by Fran’s tender stock of azaleas,
gloxinias and calceolarias, Preston Niblock watched
the sunlit scene and tried to find some niche amongst the bright colours in
which to fit death. There wasn’t even room for a graveyard spider, just
sympathetic pats on the back, and careful grasps of the hand as though bereavement
had transformed the chief mourner into fragile porcelain. Something told him
that he couldn’t float forever in this airy, expressionistic gathering and he
would have to return to Earth at some time.
Ben noticed
Eventually the limb of reality rose
and dulled the colours. What was he doing here, wasting time?
‘I have a brooch to set,’ he
announced to a neighbour who had been telling him about her Persian cat’s new
litter.
She hesitated before responding. ‘Really? What stones are you using?’
‘I promised Deirdre I would do it
before her birthday. She wanted one for her navy jacket. Opal - the stones are
fire opal surrounded by garnet baguettes - she wanted a dandelion. I didn’t have
the right colours, so I’m making her a dahlia.’
The woman knew she should let him
ramble on, but felt impelled to sound interested. ‘With
rectangular petals?’
‘I have some rock crystal beads.’
‘Garnets sound nice.’
As he took a slice of cheesecake from
the buffet table, Conrad Makepeace noticed Neville Grablatt
zero in to offer his condolences. He left his plate to cut off the human
bulldozer’s approach.
‘Councillor Grablatt,
a word with you outside please.’
An annoyed flush filled Grablatt’s huge collar. He daren’t lose his temper here.
Glancing around to find some way out, he instead saw Toni Zelinski,
the local civil engineer, fixing him with a disconcerting gaze. He was
unsettled enough to go outside into the avenues of compost to join Conrad Makepeace.
‘This had better be good. This is a
funeral y’know.’
‘I’m well aware of that, and it’s a
pity we’ll never know how the woman was killed now the crime scene has been
levelled.’
Anyone else would have defensively
pulled back. Like a true hypocrite, Grablatt quickly
recovered. ‘Crime scene? What are you talking about,
crime scene?’
‘The police told the coroner that
the premises needed further investigation.’
‘What rubbish, Makepeace. If fire
prevention couldn’t find anything, where was the point in waiting a couple more
weeks?’
‘A police forensic team were
preparing to go over the debris. That’s why they cordoned the area off. It was
very convenient that their tape blew away before the contractors arrived.’
‘These things happen.’ Grablatt pulled himself up to his imposing height and
dwarfed Makepeace, at least sideways. ‘And why should all this concern me? Why
bring it up here? Haven’t you got any respect?’
‘Just making sure you know that
these matters do not go unnoticed.’
‘Good grief, man! You’re paranoid!
Why would anyone want to kill Frank Merryweather?’
Before Makepeace could assert that it was because he was in the way of Palace
Parade, Grablatt snapped, ‘I don’t have time for
this!’ Then strode off.
‘Yes, Mr Makepeace,’ said a soft
voice from behind a nearby trellis, ‘why would anyone want to kill Frank Merryweather?’
He turned. ‘Hello Miss Zelinski.’
Nobody really knew Toni Zelinski’s age. Her husband was almost seventy, but she
still ran up and down ladders, waded through muddy building sites, and glazed
the odd window when she had no workmen on site unoccupied enough to order
about. Not that anyone minded being ordered about by her. The civil engineer
had an intangible charm that won over everyone from architect to apprentice brickie. It was odd to see her in a two piece suit instead
of jeans and canvas jacket. Conventional clothes revealed how attractive she
was in a mature dormouse sort of way.
Conrad Makepeace dutifully shook
hands with the small, sturdy woman. ‘I never saw you at the funeral?’ he said.
‘I only just arrived back from
‘I’m sorry I couldn’t do anything
about the building contract. They wouldn’t vote me onto the Palace Parade
Committee.’
‘That wasn’t your fault. We all know
that these things are fixed well beforehand - But murder?’
Makepeace gave an embarrassed
smile. ‘You never heard me say that. It was just to make Grablatt
uneasy.’
‘Really?’
‘Every little helps.’
‘No murder then?’
Makepeace examined the roses growing
over the trellis. ‘I think I’ll take a couple of these for the porch. It might
stop my wife painting it a different colour every year.’
Toni Zelinski
smiled. In the business of building contracts, it paid to be able to read
people, especially defensive members of local government.
***
That
evening, while Ben snored in the spare room, Preston Niblock
took the small family Bible from its box. He turned its gold edged pages as
though expecting to find an explanation but the verses were for another time,
another place, and more irrelevant than words in an avalanche. He had been
without sensible thoughts for long enough and now wanted his mind back.
The jeweller watched the glowing
embers of the fire Ben had lit more for comfort than warmth, and then tossed
the Bible onto them.
CHAPTER
7
Hector
tried to scratch his back. His rigorously manicured nails were useless and he
let out a stream of monosyllabic profanity.
‘That’ll be enough of that!’ snapped
a voice from the high table.
‘Bleeding Bible bashers!’ cursed the
old man, who rarely put more than two words together unless really roused.
‘There are many who would welcome a
place in this refuge.’
‘Then why don’t you bloody well go
and fetch them?’ Mabel declared in her plummy accent.
‘All three of you have been nothing
but trouble ever since you arrived.’ Mrs Roy slammed shut the prayer book she
had been vainly trying to interest her captive audience in, and stalked out.
‘Bad move, bad move,’ gabbled an
inmate on the next table. ‘Be bread and dripping for breakfast now, bread and
dripping.’
‘Don’t need
bleeding breakfast,’ growled Hector.
When the social worker had promised
the companions meals and beds they thought that she meant a hostel, not a
reformatory where God’s eagle eye gazed down from every tin lamp shade, and
their small collection of worldly goods were fumigated before being impounded
in a forbidding locker. They hadn’t heard about Moltonford’s
brand new policy on vagrancy, which encouraged the immediate arrest of anything
that looked as though it was about to settle on the pavement. It wouldn’t have
helped the companions to know that the feral pigeons had been poisoned and the
dog pound was even fuller than Mrs Roy’s emporium for waifs, strays, and the
generally misguided.
Mabel straightened her hat as though
about to attend a garden party. ‘We had our own place, you know, in the middle
of its own grounds.’
‘Yeah,’ said their neighbour. ‘Well
it ain’t there no more. Big ‘ole now.’
‘Hole? What
do you mean? Hole?’
***
A
huge sheet of plastic flapped in the rising wind to reveal lights spangling the
inky darkness below. From the depths rose the chugging of excavating machines.
‘What’s going on down there then?’ a
traffic warden asked his companion.
‘Storage units.
Be hundreds of them, each with their own lift.’
‘Thought it was going to be car
parking?’
‘Nah.
They’re knocking down the bus garage for that.’
‘Where they gonna
park the buses then?’
‘What buses?’
Having dug the hole of one section,
the excavators started on the next, preparing the ground for raft foundations
that would support the storage units, an access road, power cables, and water
pipes.
From under the hood of her parka,
Toni Zelinski furtively peered through a gap in the
tarpaulin, down into a pool of light where East European tongues tried to make
sense of the site engineer’s instructions. Although she was an experienced
civil engineer with similar ancestry, she couldn’t understand what was going on
either.
Eventually, Toni managed to
calculate that a building half a kilometre long and several stories high, was
going to rest on horizontal load bearing spans. The agitated discussion in
broken English seemed to be about the proposed depth of the columns to support
the centre of the structure. They were supposed to help spread the weight and
balance the horizontal spans, but the engineer in charge wasn’t allowing them
to sink the columns any deeper than a metre.
Toni Zelinski
replaced the tarpaulin, now thankful that she hadn’t received the contract to
build Palace Parade after all. It was also unlikely she would be shopping in
the place.
***
Not
one to get up early enough to read about the progress of Palace Parade in the
papers, Emily shivered in the pounding rain as she waited for the last bus.
Without warning, a huge ball crashed
through the wall of the bus garage opposite and added a hail of mortar to her
woes. Not hanging around to find out what was going on,
she pulled off her platform shoes and splashed over to the nearest phone to
call a taxi. Where was a prossie going to take her
clients after the shed at the back of the bus garage disappeared?
***
The
following week, shafts were excavated in the bedrock to accommodate the outside
columns that would support the whole shopping complex. To avoid time penalty
charges, the builders continued to drill around the clock. Homeward bound
revellers stopped to peer into the dimly lit holes and occasionally throw up.
Now the centre of Moltonford was empty of residents, it took on the eerie
identity of some restless monster trying to flesh itself from the intestines
outwards. On the balconies of council flats, people kept awake by cement mixers
and pile drivers watched as, one by one, tall columns punctuated the night sky.
Many were happy to substitute sleep with dreams of the shops that would nestle
in their marble heart.
Preston Niblock
looked down from his garret workroom, momentarily mesmerised by the frenetic
pace of the building work in the valley below. Then he returned to the hinge of
a locket. His hand was still unsteady. The shelf of half-finished settings and
racks of pliers, needle files, triblets, and mallets
surrounded him accusingly. ‘Can’t work? Won’t work?’ What use was a craftsman
of fine jewellery when his hand shook? He needed a holiday.
Preston Niblock
had bought his shop and home thirty years ago when the steep road down to the
town centre had trees and grass verges until it was widened. The owners of the
properties below him had sold their back gardens to a contractor who built a
row of lock up garages. The jeweller kept his land. He resented being woken in
the mornings by neighbours revving up their frozen engines.
The jeweller took a diamond
catalogue from a shelf and tried to invite some sparkle into his life. It was
no good. All he could see were the cat’s eyes of a bland future stretching away
into the night like an unlit road.
He went downstairs and made yet another
mug of Ovaltine. Nothing worked. Sleep was another
country. He examined his haggard reflection in the kitchen mirror. The hard
fluorescent light ricocheted off a bald forehead too high for his slight frame.
CHAPTER
8
The
chairman of the Palace Parade Development Committee, Neville Grablatt, brought the meeting to order with a bell borrowed
from the council chamber. As he rose, his overpowering presence silenced the
gathering of shopkeepers, and tenants of Moltonford’s
small industrial units.
From a distance, Neville Grablatt might have been mistaken for the sort of gentle
giant who helped old ladies across the road and patted their overweight
‘Business people of Moltonford,
let me welcome you to this meeting on behalf of the Palace Parade Development
Committee. I am here to address any apprehensions you may have about the
improvements to our town centre.’
Suddenly the air was filled with
apprehensions. The bell once again tinkled.
‘One at a time, please. Shall we
allow Mr Becker to start?’
As he was one of the few to remain
quiet, having been immersed in ideas for of the layout for his book on church
furniture, this took the bookseller by surprise. ‘Yes, er...’
He suddenly remembered where he was. ‘When will we know the cost of the units
in the mall?’
Having thought his selection a
clever one, Grablatt now regretted it. ‘Ah, yes. That
will not be known for some time yet. Rest assured that anyone unable to meet
such costs will be compensated for any resulting loss of business.’
An ominous silence fell over the tradespeople.
Mr Becker promptly leapt from the
cathedral of his preoccupations as he recalled Gideon Enterprizes
testament to Moltonford. ‘Loss of
business? I thought this shopping mall was supposed to enhance our
businesses?’
‘Indeed we hope so but, at this
stage, nothing can be guaranteed.’
Winston Cuffe,
who owned a record shop, was less diplomatic. ‘All surveys carried out have
found that small shops suffer when a large enclosed mall is introduced into a
town centre. Our businesses will only remain viable in an open shopping
precinct, as the residents had been demanding for over ten years, and were
given to believe would be part of the development.’
‘Now this is some-’
‘Yes! Who decided to enclose
everything in this massive aquarium?’ blurted out Mercy, his sister.
More people leapt to their feet.
Chaos rained again until, taking the
coward’s way out, Neville Grablatt pointed to an
accountant who was fortunate enough to have an office that would face the
shopping centre. ‘Miss Priddle, do you have any
objections?’
The accountant polished her apricot
nails on a matching satin collar. ‘Yes, Mr Grablatt.
I can’t hear myself speak on the phone for those pile drivers, and all the
pigeons not caught by pest control are roosting on my roof.’
The councillor was momentarily
wrong-footed. Whatever powers he had in this little empire, pigeons were not
subject to them. ‘That wasn’t what I meant.’
Miss Priddle
leisurely scratched her head through her bouffant hairdo with a gold pen and
looked the monster in the eye. ‘Mr Grablatt, I have
been asked to represent the Co-operative renting the industrial units in
There were murmurs of agreement in
the background.
‘Yes, yes. But this is a different
matter-’
It was too late. The accountant’s
peach tones were pared aside to reveal the stone underneath. ‘So why has the
council abolished all parking in that area and doubled the rents of the units?’
Howls rose throughout the small
hall.
‘This is not relevant!’ Grablatt bellowed above the din. ‘Those units are unsafe!
Structural repairs must be made! The new rents will only come into force when
this has happened!’
Miss Priddle
was finding the shouting competition tedious and would have rather been
drinking wine with a vintage amour. The accountant rose like an equatorial
sunrise and the audience fell silent. ‘And, Mr Grablatt,
while these repairs are taking place, does the council intend to allocate
alternative premises to my clients? Or would it be more convenient for them to
just go out of business?’
With a unified roar of rage, the
metal craftsmen, a potter, shoe maker, baker, and electricians stood up,
quickly followed by the rest of the audience. Even the thug in Neville Grablatt was unnerved, so he slipped through the platform
curtains and out of the town hall to safety.
Without an Aunt Sally, the meeting
was obliged to adjourn untidily to the nearest pub where the arrival of the
angry crowd persuaded some students to vacate the benches in the garden.
‘Is there anyone here who still
doesn’t believe something is going on?’ Winston Cuffe
aimed his question principally at the Cupit sisters
who made children’s clothes in one of the
Vivian Cupit
was highly strung and, once she believed her own conclusions, was prepared to
attack anyone who disagreed with them. ‘Why should this affect us? It will
bring more people into Moltonford. I don’t know why
everyone’s getting so emotional?’
‘Sit down Vivian,’ ordered Sonia Cupit. ‘Mr Cuffe is right. There
is something more than town centre redevelopment going on here. Look at the
speed they’re putting the place up. I doubt if the rats were able to get out of
the sewers in time.’
Vivian huffily resumed her seat and
sipped her G and T as though it was lemon juice.
Church furniture was now the last
thing on Mr Becker’s mind. ‘And isn’t it odd how all the local builders have been
cut out of the contract?’
‘Yeah, now why would they do that?’ Winston
asked ironically.
The bookseller shrugged. ‘Perhaps
there’s something in the plans a mere British brickie
would not be allowed to see in case he understood it.’
‘Well, what about Miss Zelinski? – She’s straight. Did our
extension last year. Refunded a couple of hundred because they didn’t
need to make a saddle connection to some pipe. She wouldn’t go along with any
scam. That’s probably why she was cut out.’
The bookseller replaced his glasses
to give the gathering an objective look. ‘Pity Niblock
isn’t here. He may be the quiet sort, but he’s got a nose for these things.’
Vivian Cupit
was unable to sulk any longer. ‘I always thought his nose was too turned up to
notice the tribulations of mere mortals like us.’
Monty Golden, the bespoke tailor,
would have resented anything that came out of the woman’s mouth unless it was
her last gasp. ‘
Vivian Cupit
went bright pink and let out a gasp of outrage.
‘Hey, steady!’ called Winston.
‘There’s no point in fighting each other.’
Bored by the machinations of the
shopkeepers and her clients, Miss Priddle glanced at
her watch. ‘Shame about his wife. Looks
as though I’ll have to wait for that pearl choker now.’
‘Pearls for grief,’ Monty Golden
muttered.
‘Well he’s certainly had that.’
Mercy Cuffe
had already been nursing her own doubts for some time and could keep them to
herself no longer. ‘That fire. You don’t think? I mean…?’
‘Deliberate? Probably.’
Miss Priddle pulled out a silver note pad and
consulted it. ‘Fire discovered 1607. Fire service arrived 1614. Merryweather’s gutted 1629,’ she read as though it were
simple arithmetic.
‘Do you really think that it was
arson?’
‘Why else is there going to be an
inquest.’
‘Then why did the contractors clear
the site?’
‘Probably because
there was going to be an inquest.’
The gathering fell silent. The
manager of a small supermarket became uneasy at the implication and left. His
store was part of a chain and could relocate.
Mr Singh, the shoemaker, didn’t like
the connotation either. ‘That means anyone one of us here could be at risk.’
‘Only if you get
in their way.’ Miss Priddle tapped her pearlised lips with her gold fountain pen. ‘It would be
interesting to see the contracts for Palace Parade. This place isn’t being
constructed to bump up the dividends of shareholders.’
‘Why not?’
‘Julius Tucker the third never
floated Gideon Enterprizes.’
CHAPTER
9
It
would be another hour before the smell of traffic was wafted from the coast
road and, as though scattered with sequins, the gently rippling sea sparkled in
the morning sun. Preston Niblock put down his
suitcase to lean on the promenade wall. He had often stood there with Deirdre
to watch the sun setting over the headland and the ships passing like pieces on
a glittering draughtboard.
A pier dotted with fishermen
straggled out into the benign swell, coming to a full stop where some ferry had
dashed away the pavilion at the end of it. And the sea walls were higher –
large stone blocks indicating the height of public anxiety. Below was the dull
clatter of pebbles in the outgoing swell and the smell of decomposing seaweed. Moltonford seemed a thousand miles away, not thirty. The
jeweller even stopped thinking about the gems and precious metals sitting in
his safe. Though he now ceased to value the materials of his trade, the
unfinished jewellery of several clients lay accusingly amongst them. But this
was not the time to wonder what stone to set at the centre of Lady Angela’s pendant,
or about reclaiming the precious filings from the bench apron. Until his hand
stopped shaking, filigree falderals, and grain settings were beyond him anyway.
The widower rang the doorbell and
braced himself to face yet more condolences.
That evening, if someone had asked
him what he had been doing all day he wouldn’t have been able to tell them,
only that he had the vague recollection of eating, walking and watching some
ancient film on television where the star wore pearls the size of mothballs.
All he wanted to do was rest. Then the dreaded moment, bedtime, arrived. Having
hardly slept for weeks, Preston knew he would only lay awake under
He dutifully brushed his teeth,
pulled on his pyjamas, and laid his head on the polycotton
pillow to while away yet another sleepless night. The next thing
After a full breakfast, Preston Niblock put on a light suit to make the most of the sun
before another weather depression reared its ugly grey head.
He walked along the promenade and
beyond to the rough path that wended its way down to the rock-strewn shore to
watch fossil hunters busily chipping away at the shale. They always turned up
ammonites, and occasionally somebody found that fly in amber or rare fish.
The jeweller turned over a small
chalcedony pebble with his toe. Deirdre used to collect carnelian, agate, and
quartz by the bucket load to polish in her wind driven machine that kept the
neighbourhood awake when she forgot to put the brake on. Then she gave the
stones away. Some women served in charity shops or visited the elderly. Deirdre
polished pebbles and gave them away. If they had been together for another
thirty-five years,
Suddenly there was foam splashing
over his shoes. He sprang back and brushed the water from his trousers. Someone
chuckled.
‘You need wellies
around here. Pools of water everywhere,’ said a short, stout young woman with a
puckish smile.
‘I’m foreign to this part of the
beach. Usually keep to the promenade.’
‘You don’t sound that foreign?’
‘I come from Moltonford.’
At the town’s name, the
palaeontologist involuntarily blurted out a laugh loud enough to frighten a
herring gull from its perch on a breakwater.
‘You know it well then?’
She took a quick breath from an
inhaler. ‘Sorry. Only ever went there to buy the odd tool from Pilkington’s –
Is he still trading?’
‘Retired two years ago. Both of his
sons moved to
‘Shame.
Don’t suppose many specialist shops will last long when that shopping mall
opens.’
Until then, the jeweller hadn’t
really given it any thought. ‘You’re probably right.’
The young woman started to giggle
again. ‘Bet they’re getting on with it pretty sharpish?’
‘They must know about it then. Have
to with a building that size. Depends how far down they were able to sink the
foundations, I suppose. But then, I’m a palaeontologist, not an architect. By
the way, my name’s Coral.’
‘Mine is
‘After the town?’
‘Born there to
parents of small imagination.’
‘That’s lucky.’
‘Lucky?’
‘My parents are consultants on tacky
films about rampaging dinosaurs – promote every daft dino
DNA theory that reaches the cinema. They were dotty enough to have christened
me Sally Sauropod instead.’
‘Mine thought that a trip to the
cinema warranted exorcism.’
‘What did you watch when you managed
to escape, then?’
‘Harryhausen films about rampaging dinosaurs.’
Coral stopped giggling to herself.
‘You sure it’s going to be that tacky?’
‘When it has destroyed all the
opposition it can be as crass as it wants because everyone will have forgotten
what quality is and how little they used to pay for goods.’
The palaeontologist opened her eyes
wide. ‘Ooh, there speaks the voice of deep loathing.’
As he hadn’t yet come around to
blaming it for Deirdre’s death,
‘If they dig down deep enough, no
one would do much laughing.’
Coral beamed. ‘Why
not. This can be thirsty work.’ She gathered up her small collection of
finds in a soggy raffia basket and led the way.
The palaeontologist was obviously a
regular and her doughnut and coke arrived as they went to a table by the
window.
She slurped down a few mouthfuls
then took another breath from her inhaler. ‘You know about the River Nox, don’t you?’
‘It runs under your town.’
He hadn’t known that. ‘I thought its
source was in the range of hills over fifty miles away?’
‘The drainage basin is, then the river meanders through the bedrock. Guess where
to?’
It didn’t need somebody as sharp as
Rocks on this scale were beyond the
jeweller’s comprehension. ‘Not volcanic, surely?’
Coral laughed. ‘God no, but the
limestone is ancient and impermeable. During the Cretaceous, when it was more
soluble, the run off gouged out a large network of caves.’
‘I didn’t know that.’
‘It would be impossible to sink
enough bores to map out their extent. We can only guess by the number of
ancient artesian wells. Now most of those have disappeared since the water
pressure dropped.’
‘Oh, it gets better.’
‘Better?’
‘You keen on shopping?’
It was an odd question to slip into
a discussion about geology. ‘What’s that got to do with limestone caves?’
‘The centre of Moltonford
sits over a bloody huge one. So I hope they don’t build any heavy turrets on
Palace Parade.’
‘But, the borough surveyor-’
‘Well, that’s what the charts said
when I saw them last. A year ago I wanted to find the location of this fossil
bed worked by the Victorians, but suddenly no one’s allowed to look at them any
more. Could be cutbacks in library funding, but then, show me sixpence and I’d
believe in the tooth fairy.’
Preston Niblock
was beginning to wish he hadn’t dispensed with his security blanket of
religious belief so finally. The idea of some almighty deity watching, ready to
punish miscreants wasn’t perhaps such a bad idea after all. ‘Oh
dear God.’
Coral swallowed the rest of her
doughnut. ‘Well, when it all comes out, somebody’s certainly not going to get
to Heaven.’
The jeweller shook his head. Being
thirty years older, he could no longer deny cruel reality. ‘If
it gets out.’
CHAPTER
10
Conrad
Makepeace looked in the rear view mirror to straighten his tie and comb back
his thinning hair before stepping out of the car, ready to face any members of
the press at the inquest.
Fortunately there was only one disinterested looking young woman who
obviously aspired to report on more action than this. What might have
previously led to a murder charge had now been relegated to a domestic tragedy,
so the local newspaper had no doubt found a somersaulting guinea pig or rude
vegetable to lavish copy on instead.
The councillor waited while the
coroner and his officer bustled in, and then joined the other witnesses, glad
that Preston Niblock was still away. The last thing
the jeweller needed to hear was the gruesome details of his wife’s death.
***
Mabel caught her friend’s arm. ‘No,
no,
The rest of the congregation were
doing their best to cough in time to some irrelevant downbeat and Hector was
braying inaudible obscenities to the tune.
Mrs Roy turned accusingly to the
piano accompanist. ‘This is impossible! What is wrong with them today?’
‘It was fish cakes for lunch, Mrs
Roy. They don’t like fish cakes, much prefer fish fingers.’ The old lady in the
huge rouched hat smiled toothily without missing a
note, as well as hitting quite a few of the right ones.
‘What rubbish. How is it possible to
show charity to these people?’
‘Just think of Jesus, dear.’
Mrs Roy’s eyes narrowed and her
bosom heaved at the ingratitude of the ancient vagrants she had saved from the
streets. Not even the thought of female bishops could fill her with such
virtuous indignation. There was an order to all things and some almighty cue
kept snookering them out of position.
‘Smile dear,’ said the smile under
the hat. ‘Jesus is watching you.’
***
The
animal rights activist was a tiny young woman wearing an embroidered cap and
braided hair extensions. The sleeves of her antique jacket fell over her hands
and the mirrors on her long fringed skirt glittered in an unnecessary spotlight.
‘Us, your Honour?
No, we don’t believe in violent protest. We believe in what Ghandi said. Our
protests reflect the dignity of life and the way it interrelates-’
‘Yes, Ms Tindal,’ interrupted the
coroner. ‘We all know what Ghandi said. Just tell us if you know of anyone in
the Animal Rights Movement who might have felt strongly enough to harm a
butcher, namely Mr Merryweather?’
The small pinched face first mouthed
the words before it dared utter them. ‘No one that we know.
Mr Merryweather led the fight against the
redevelopment. After he had gone, there was no one to stop the bulldozers
ripping the heart out of Moltonford.’
‘You mean the park?’
‘Yes your honour. It was the lungs
of this town and now it will suffocate-’
‘Thank you Ms Tindal.’
An usher gently escorted the animal
rights activist from the witness’s chair as though she was liable to flutter up
to the balcony and throw down leaflets about saving the whale.
Sub Officer Yeoman took her place.
He explained that Fire Prevention
had enough suspicions to recommend an investigation, but after the site was
bulldozed they became academic.
The coroner resented being robbed of
the chance to find reliable evidence and wasn’t going to let the matter go
easily. ‘Tell me, is there any way of starting such a fire without leaving a
trace?’
The sub officer’s eyes momentarily
glazed as though his reply would be broadcast nationwide for every arsonist to
hear.
The coroner added, ‘Of course, any
members of the media will exercise discretion and not report your answer.’
The disinterested, solitary trainee
from the local newspaper’s sports desk continued to chew her pencil, unaware
that her lewd doodles were being taken as a threat to the legal process. The
usher discreetly reached over and confiscated the frayed writing implement.
At last having the chance to air his
suspicions, the sub officer’s face lit up. ‘There were several thermostats in
the basement and, as the room was reasonably airtight, it would have been
possible to release pure oxygen or any other flammable gas into the void.’
The coroner waited for the punch
line. ‘Yes?’
‘Pure oxygen is very flammable, Sir.
A spark from any of the thermostats could have ignited it.’
The coroner paused. ‘Thank you Sub
Officer Yeoman.’ Over half moon glasses his glance swept the room. ‘Is Mr
Conrad Makepeace here?’
Everyone in the packed hall held
their breath and from a privileged seat in the balcony, Neville Grablatt looked down at the thinning silver hair as his
adversary took the witness chair.
‘Mr Makepeace, I understand you had
some communication with one of the deceased before this incident?’
‘That is correct Sir.’
‘Could you tell us the nature of
it?’
Councillor Makepeace put on his
glasses and referred to several letters. ‘I received my first communication
from Mr Merryweather on the 4th of November. He
complained that he had been under pressure to sell his property to a company
called Gideon Enterprizes. Despite several approaches
he declined, though many other residents did accept the offer. Later, the
borough engineer sent letters to everyone still with property in the street
stating that, as the houses were so run down, they would be demolished to make
way for a new development, not specified. Mr Merryweather
was angry because his premises had always been well maintained, and had stood
on the same site for over two hundred years.’
‘This actually being the business he
inherited from his wife’s father?’
‘That is correct.’
‘Please carry on.’
‘Mr Merryweather
had encouraged the remaining residents in
‘Was there no record of the letters
being sent from council offices?’
Conrad Makepeace removed his
spectacles. ‘None Sir.’
‘Can you say where the letters might
have originated from?’
‘Paper with Moltonford
Corporation letter heading would be easy enough to come by.’
‘Do you have any reason to believe
that Gideon Enterprizes was involved in this matter?’
‘All my letters to them were
ignored.’
‘Where were the threatening letters
to Mr Merryweather posted?’
‘Unfortunately all his
correspondence when up in the fire. I have no envelopes and only photocopies.’
The last line of enquiry cut, the
coroner sat back. As he glanced up, the large, grinning face of Neville Grablatt seemed to rise like a malevolent moon over the
balcony balustrade.
***
Relegated
to the garden for bad behaviour, Hector, Alice and Mabel took their plastic
chairs to a bushy magnolia and clustered beneath it like plotting magpies.
‘Not like park,’ rumbled Hector,
thinking of the goodies that Deirdre Niblock used to
regularly bring them. ‘Where’s Jenny?’
‘I keep telling you, she’s gone,’
scolded Mabel.
‘We were wearing out the parquet
paved with charity.’
The other two ignored Mabel when she
talked like that. It also made do-gooders suspect that she wasn’t quite what
she seemed.
‘Merryweather! Sausage!’
Hector suddenly blurted out. ‘In bun! Mustard!’
‘Only on Sundays,’
‘Not since plumbers.’
‘No, not since the
plumbers.’
Mabel nodded. ‘They should have
fitted sprinklers.’
‘No idea, but it wasn’t sprinklers.’
‘No, I suppose not. Burnt down the
same day, didn’t he.’
‘Yes
CHAPTER
11
Much
to her irritation, Miss Priddle scratched her nail
varnish on a staple as she pulled out the brashly coloured brochure from its
envelope. She read the Gideon Enterprizes promotion
with a mixture of distaste for its simplistic hype, and outrage at the enclosed
list of proposed ground rents for Palace Parade. The cartoon crown sitting at
the top of the page should have been a tin hat, because there were going to be
some pretty annoyed shopkeepers in Moltonford. None
of them would be able to afford Gideon’s charges, even if they took out a
second mortgage and sold the family silver. As well as the craft workers and
bespoke goods outlets she had agreed to represent, this was also going to hit
the small industrial units. Preventing so many businesses from going under
would tax even her ingenuity.
Large companies came in many sizes and shapes. Those controlled by only
one person were the most difficult to deal with. You could lop the occasional
head off multi-headed monsters without the others realising what had happened.
One person capable of managing a multi-billion dollar empire was instinctively
programmed to know everything about their business, from when to seize and
asset strip competitors to how many paper clips went missing from his
secretary’s desk. Getting past the Cerberus that guarded Gideon’s gate was
going to be a challenge.
The next meeting of Miss Priddle’s clients in the small church hall was subdued. The
gathering of shopkeepers and craftspeople now had no Grablatt
to shout at, and knew that virtuous rage would not prevent their businesses
from bleeding to death. Mercy Cuffe was close to
tears and her indomitable brother at last lost for words.
The accountant took an envelope from
her briefcase and tried to sound matter of fact. ‘Of course, there is this
goodwill promise of one sizeable unit to act as an outlet for several
businesses. It would at least afford a collective presence in the mall while
you retain your original premises.’
Monty Golden shrugged. ‘Where would
be the point? However large it is, it couldn’t carry the stock of everyone
here, let alone display it.’
‘And it’s tucked right by the
‘Nevertheless, I am recommending
that you allow me to take up the option so they won’t have the excuse to rent
it out to someone else.’
Monty Golden couldn’t see the point,
yet deferred to her clinical reasoning. ‘You’re the brains.’
Aware of the bespoke tailor’s
business acumen, Miss Priddle doubted that he meant
it. ‘Thank you.’
Ever the optimist, Vicky Wade asked,
‘Can you see a way of making this work for my pottery?’
The accountant neatly folded the
letter and replaced it in her briefcase. ‘No prospect is totally hopeless,
though I would advise those able and willing to take any compensation move
their businesses. From now on, it will be an uphill struggle for all the
specialist shops in Moltonford, but...’
It was unlike Miss Priddle to hesitate, so the potter prompted, ‘But?’
Mental cogs had started turning.
However, even this mathematician needed time to calculate one of her
Machiavellian schemes. ‘I will have to study the small print of the contract a
little more closely. From an initial reading, it appears to contain guarantees
of tenure and rent, as well as generous storage space directly below the
premises.’
‘That’s because they don’t expect us
to take it up,’ said Mr Becker. ‘How could we manage to fit a bookseller,
potter, electrical goods, health foods, clothes, shoe maker, and jeweller all
into one unit?
The jeweller he had actually been
referring to was Lucy Tribble from the industrial
co-operative, though Vivian Cupit cut in rather
nastily, ‘Well, I can’t see Mr Niblock taking up any
space. They say his mind isn’t what it used to be after what happened to his
wife.’
‘That was uncalled for!’ snapped
Sonia, wishing she could tip her touchy sister into the footings of Palace
Parade and let them concrete her over, though the acid would have probably
seeped through the hardcore.
Miss Priddle
snapped shut the catches on her briefcase with a click that resonated about the
timber roof void. ‘If anything constructive is going to come of this there must
be no disagreements. I’ve seen too many businesses fold because partners fall
out.’ The tone was not so much schoolmarmish, but
Madam Speaker.
‘Hear, hear,’ Mercy Cuffe muttered into the intimidated silence.
The accountant expected nothing to
be resolved that evening. Ideas fluttered through her mind. Those without
plausible business portfolios tucked under their wings were quickly shot down.
As the gathering morosely dribbled
out to late dinners and the pub, Miss Priddle
repaired her lipstick. In her mirror she noticed a butterfly standing between
the rows of stacking chairs.
‘Mrs Singh, I never saw you in the
audience?’
Despite her elegant saris, the wife
of the shoemaker only made a point of being noticed when it was convenient.
‘I do not wish to detain you, Miss Priddle.’
The accountant laughed. ‘I’m pretty
sure you can’t have anything less constructive to offer than the others. What
can I do for you?’
The breeze from the open door seemed
to waft Mrs Singh forward. ‘In my home village my grandfather used to own a
large store. As it was the only store, he had to sell everything. Some things
were not always available when people travelled from outlying districts to
purchase their goods. It was often months before they were able to return. Had
he known exactly what they needed, he could have had it waiting for them.
‘My grandfather’s brother used to
send him books from the
***
Preston
Niblock read the article once more. If he had stayed
away another week it would have given Fran time to gather up all the newspapers
in the neighbourhood and incinerate them. He hadn’t told her of his intention
to return for fear of coming back to a house filled with flowers.
Once again he read the coroner’s
conclusion. ‘Frank Merryweather and Deirdre Niblock met their deaths in a fire, the causes of which
were suspicious, though without sufficient grounds to recommend further
investigation, I must therefore return a verdict of unlawful killing.’
Deirdre murdered? As well as
illogical guilt,
In the days that followed he kept
the closed sign on the shop door and sat in his garret workroom, idly trying to
play shove halfpenny on his bench pin with cabochons and soldering the swarf of precious metals into bizarre doodles. Then he used
a blank of platinum to chase the image of a skull and grain set scrolls of
diamonds and sapphires over its surface. He would have pierced Satan’s outline
in gold but didn’t have the right star rubies for the eyes and suddenly felt
hungry.
The jeweller went downstairs to make
a sandwich with dry bread. Then he sat brooding behind drawn curtains and
ignored it.
Somebody turned the keys in the
locks of the shop door. He ignored that as well.
Fran, not having heard from him, had
a hunch that he had returned days ago.
Seeing
He continued to stare at the
wallpaper. ‘Why would anyone want to kill Deirdre?’
‘They probably only intended to burn
down Merryweather’s.’
‘If I knew who was responsible I
would commit murder, but I don’t, and am never likely to.’ She pushed a plate
of biscuits in front of her brother-in-law then sat down to face him. ‘
‘Yes?’
‘Are you sure you want to stay in Moltonford?’
‘Why shouldn’t I?’
‘It’s not going to be much of a
place for small businesses from now on. You could afford to move to the coast,
retire, or start that small museum you wanted.’
He looked vacantly at the tea
service as though it was about to vote on his sanity. ‘I have to know why
Deirdre died.’
‘
‘Would you move?’
Fran shrugged. ‘My business won’t
suffer. Given the way they’ll heat the place, they can’t have a garden centre
in the shopping mall.’ Fran threw open the curtains then poured their tea.
‘You’ll have to decide one way or the other. People are starting to enquire
about their heirlooms.’
Cold logic joined hands with his
guilt. ‘No. Whoever was responsible for her death is probably connected with
Gideon Enterprizes, and I’ll be damned before I allow
some corrupt speculator to put me out of business!’
Fran lowered her cup in surprise.
She had never heard so much conviction in his tone. Although sharp-witted, her
brother-in-law had always appeared mild mannered. Now some metamorphosis was
taking place, but not one liable to flutter off on pretty wings and sip nectar
from the buttercups.
CHAPTER
12
Palace
Parade stretched from the town hall, right through the centre of Moltonford and to the small square commemorating Queen
True to its royal pretensions, the
contractor had cast preformed Hellenistic pillars for its grand front entrance
and façade, though they owed more to Walt Disney than Palladian pretensions.
Supported by the load bearing outside columns, five levels of cantilevered
gallery ran the length of the mall. This allowed in enough sunlight from the
six storey high glass ceiling to illuminate the mall’s
simulated marble and mosaic floor. That was all the customers would be allowed
to see of the great outdoors. Even the vast store windows facing the High
Street were filled with displays backed by screens that blocked out daylight.
At night the Moltonford ghosts, whose haunts the
monstrosity had displaced, would only have the safety lights to find their way
around, apart from Molly MacGlagen the axe murderess,
who had committed her deeds by candlelight and always had a match handy.
It was opening day. Palace Parade
was festooned with bunting and balloons, much of it in places only hydraulic
platforms and the surviving pigeons could reach. All that was left of the old
High Street was two fast food outlets, half a dozen estate agents, and a
forecourt in cream and red brick from which the customers could be enticed into
the major stores. Neatly dotted with flower containers, it made a promise of
the antiseptic interior.
On the other side of the wide,
welcoming glass doors escalators rotated like jewelled treadmills and
see-through lifts ascended and descended with no visible means of support.
Everyone in Moltonford
with a credit card and car boot was thronging around the steps of the town hall
where Neville Grablatt and a star from a television
soap out-performed the town’s dowdy little mayor. The poor man had only been
voted into the position because he never got in anyone’s way or upstaged the
real stars. If it hadn’t been for his chain of office, he would have been
mistaken for Grablatt’s lunch.
After the menacingly ebullient
councillor had finished his oration to Gideon’s commercial vision, the mousy
mayor uttered a few piping words. Then the Botoxed
soap star tottered down the High Street on five inch heels, ready to snip the
pink tape across the entrance to consumer heaven after the parade.
A huge net burst
asunder and excited children chased after the released balloons that
hadn’t floated up to further alarm the much harassed pigeons. Few people
bothered to read the small print on them, just below the cartoon crown, and
probably wouldn’t have known what Gideon Enterprizes
was anyway, despite Grablatt’s eulogy. The only thing
Moltonford seemed interested in was shopping; for
many the ideal substitute for sex. It may have been more expensive, but you
always came out with something to show for it other than pregnancy or some
noxious disease.
Then the majorettes arrived.
Exhilarated by their success in a baton twirling competition, they spun,
twisted, skipped, and kazooed for the milling crowds,
clearing the way for the main attraction, floats of every nation. Well, nations
north of the equator with the income and a similar appetite to shop. Stars and
Stripes led the procession and onlookers grabbed the proffered beefburgers and hot dogs from huge two-legged, foam rubber
buns.
On the French float paraded fashion
plate models with coat hanger shoulders in off-the-peg clothes that would be
available to the public in only a matter of moments from the largest store.
Miss Priddle
was sitting at the window of her first floor office with Toni Zelinski watching in contemptuous amazement.
No one knew Miss Priddle’s
first name. She guarded it as though it was even more unlikely than her
surname. Whatever else she might have been, the accountant was not a Priddle. She was an Athena of the ledger, the goddess who
could stand before the tide of outgoing expenditure and make it flow back into
its original budget. Many a suicidal businessman owed his sanity to her
inventive - and totally plausible - way of presenting accounts to the Inland
Revenue. She had thrown life belts to shopkeepers mired down in receipts, and
found obscure items of legitimate expenditure that turned around the profits of
several small businesses. Names wended their way from the City to discreetly
ask her to unravel unfortunate commitments they made in the flush of yuppiedom,
and the managers of international firms surreptitiously faxed her their accounts to find out who had been embezzling the
tea money.
No one was sure what planet Miss Priddle had arrived from, or to what she owed her
phenomenal capacity for preventing people from being suffocated by their own
spreadsheets. Because her hobby was making herself look like a model who fell off the catwalk some time in the seventies, her
occupation seemed all the more remarkable. When her clients had an accountant
who could save their businesses, they weren’t going to wonder too much at the
tightness of her skirt, height of her heels or how much lip-gloss she used.
Sipping wine, the accountant and
civil engineer peered over the flower box to wonder as float upon cumbersome
float appeared from nowhere.
‘I wonder where they had all those
parked?’ mused Miss Priddle.
‘Probably that set-aside field on
Butt’s farm.’
‘The wretched man hasn’t sold the
land to Gideon has he? I don’t think I could cope with more than one procession
like this in a lifetime.’
‘Don’t worry, it’s too far out. The
field turns into a bog after a shower and it wouldn’t be worth draining for a
car park. They need land in the town centre.’ Toni noticed the next set of
floats approaching. ‘Oh my God. This must be the
seasons.’
Spring just managed to stop short of
infringing Disney copyright, although the suspended polystyrene centaurs and
blue-haired sprites were a risky cross between My Little Pony and Fantasia.
Dolls and toys for babies bounced from a canopy of billowing, parachute like
clouds and media related mechanoids for teenagers
chased each other with alien weaponry to tinny sound effects on the rolling
daisy covered hillocks below.
Toni Zelinski
was more interested in autumn’s castle than why the float had managed to arrive
before summer. It shouldn’t have been possible to balance the top-heavy
construction on the truck’s narrow base, let alone have a dozen knights in full
armour perching on the battlements. Her gaze eagerly followed it like a
spectator at
Summer, rushing to catch up, was
festooned with so many billowing drapes that the point of the spectacle was
mostly obscured. Tony Zelinski and Miss Priddle decided that it had something to do with fashion.
As the accountant had her own firm ideas about dress and the civil engineer was
more used to boots and safety helmets than frocks, they felt no sympathy for
the models being strangled by their own backdrop.
Winter predictably had a ski slope
crowded with the members of a sports club demonstrating how you too could have
bodies like them if you exercised with their selection of equipment.
Miss Priddle
stifled a yawn. ‘This is going on forever.’
Toni noticed a new wonder. ‘Oh look,
a Jacuzzi on wheels.’
‘What’s that supposed to represent? Effluent control?’
The builder had something else on
her mind. ‘Wonder how they managed to plumb it in?’
The accountant’s priorities were
slightly different. ‘I wonder if that blond beefcake is wearing knickers?’
‘Given the height of those bubbles,
he needs scuba gear.’
‘They left out
‘Vodka and the
Mafia?’
Miss Priddle
reached over the window box and caught a balloon. She tapped the small print
beneath PALACE PARADE ‘That’s the closest we’re likely to get to Gideon Enterprizes.’
‘Not even an address I can send my
hate mail to. At least being just across the road from them won’t do your
business any harm.’
Miss Priddle
burst the balloon with a sharp scarlet nail and scared the pigeons roosting in
the guttering above. ‘This shifty estate agent from out of town has an
“important client” who wants to make me an offer for the place.’
‘Just as well you own the freehold.’
‘Now why on earth would Gideon need
this side of the street as well?’
‘Because property
values will be soaring in a matter of minutes?’
‘I doubt it.’
‘You’re right. No other business
would stand a chance. The rest of the town centre will only be fit for charity
shops and estate agents by the end of the year.’ Toni took a sip of her sherry.
‘Still prefer to see the old park there instead of a wall of glass.’
‘At least it will give the local
yobbos something to amuse themselves with.’
Toni Zelinski
shook her head. ‘Not that stuff. It’s not your regular laminate or toughened
glass. Even I wouldn’t have been able to supply it if they had given me the
contract.’
‘You know anything about the
construction company?’
The builder shook her head. ‘Mystery to me. American architect, Hungarian contractor -
civil engineer probably came from Mars.’
‘Why’s that?’
‘It was a bloody funny way to put up
a place that size.’
‘What do you mean?’
‘Everything hangs from the outside
columns.’
‘Shouldn’t it then?’
‘A place with those overheads needs
to maximise its floor space. The complex could have contained stores on several
levels. Instead, it has those narrow galleries of boutiques you could hardly
turn a pig in. They make the building look like a gutted liner.’
‘Oh, they won’t be losing out. Add
to the exemption from rates, no need to pay ground rent for five years, and the
fact they only had to fork out for building the place and they’re laughing.’
‘No kidding?’
‘Now there are some books I would
like to go over. Neville Grablatt has all the
answers, but they aren’t going to be published in the local council’s
newsletter.’
At last the soap star dutifully cut
the scarlet ribbon and. as the large glass doors to Palace Parade opened,
another net of balloons were released, along with some rather disorientated
doves that zeroed in to the pigeons returning to Miss Priddle’s
roof with outraged territorial cooing.
She closed the window.
The Mayor’s party quickly stepped
aside as a stampede of shoppers rushed forward to be first at the special
offers.
At every corner inside Palace Parade
stood lithe young people wearing comedy crowns and garish uniforms plugged into
welcome mode. They handed out commemorative pens, lollipops, and fizzy drinks.
Throughout the heart of the complex the escalators criss-crossing to different
galleries framed a fountain dancing to a selection of mind deadening Musak.
Quickly overcoming their awe at this
cathedral to consumerism, people began to search for discounts. Customers who
counted the pennies when buying baked beans suddenly found the money for frilly
blouses that would only be worn once, monumental candles for the patio, and
aftershave guaranteed to attract every airhostess from
The shopping frenzy eventually died
down when some residual logic told everyone that the mall would be open the
next day as well, and the day after that and so on, until all the world’s
special offers dried up.
Some stores had a
sameness about them, like familiar tunes played in a different key. If
one had petit four boxed in cellophane, another would have the same
confectionery in glass trays with a spray of silk violets costing twice as
much. Perfumes for every occasion and person, male, female, and pampered pet,
were also priced according to container. No one seemed to mind. The point of
having an expensive looking bottle on your dressing table was that visiting
friends retrieving their coats from the bedroom after dining on your cordon
bleu crab paté would realise what an affluent and
discriminating acquaintance you were. The fact that the selfsame product could
be bought in half litre bottles in one of the large chemists for the same price
would escape their attention because they weren’t going to admit that they
shopped in such a downmarket outlet.
The Tots ‘n Tinies
store sold every media related toy parents dreaded as soon as the film
appeared. Overpriced moulded rubber cartoon characters were one thing -
fiendish plastic engines that spat pellets, shot out blades and kung-fued the cat without warning, were quite another. Life in
the nursery was already hazardous enough.
The Tots ‘n Tinies
imprint published alien, brain-sucking monsters for the semi-literate mind. If
the tots were too tiny to revel in the adventures of the World Destroying Demon
of Mars, they could always read about the inane antics of little fluffy animals
running around in frilly bonnets, patchwork waistcoats, and pinnies.
And for those parents who couldn’t read, there were sticky transfers of
expressions they could help their offspring fix to the right face.
The larger stores appeared to have
found a mythical Far Eastern island where the inhabitants lived side by side
with grinning turtles, large bland bears in straw hats, and a whole range of
other cute animals they were impelled to replicate wood, straw, stone, and
metal. The ornaments sat, perched or crouched beside small porcelain houses
with filigree thatched roofs and twisting chimneys, and notebooks of handmade
paper decorated with gold scrolls. After the senses had been desensitised by
display upon display of these gewgaws the price didn’t seem to matter.
Embroidered linen sheets to match
the wallpaper, wallpaper to match the curtains; everything had its place on the
display shelves. It would all be rotated once in a while to give more useless
items room. Palace Parade may not have had a feel for the necessities of life,
but it certainly had the knack of making people wonder how they could have
existed for so long without an exotic wooden salad bowl, onyx candlestick, or
inflatable sandpit.
That evening Preston Niblock watched from his
garret workroom as a spotlight on the roof of Palace Parade projected the
silhouette of that dreadful crown into the sky.
He put on his coat and strolled down
to the
‘My God,’ he murmured to himself as
though noticing Palace Parade for the first time. ‘It’s six storeys high.’
The jeweller felt a chill breeze,
pulled up his collar and walked back home.
CHAPTER
13
One
of the secondary entrances to Palace Parade opened onto the small square that
was all that was left of Victoria Park and faced the gates of Fran’s garden
centre. Having bought their plastic flowerpots, potting compost, and trellises
in the shopping mall, people were fortunately fired with enough ambition for
something other than plastic flowers.
Before padlocking the main gates the
next day, Fran thanked goodness for the damage the central heating in Palace
Parade would have done to bedding plants and started to tally up the day’s
takings. Predictably, compost and garden tools were down. Plants had been going
as soon as she received new stock. That was the way she preferred it. Flowers
were shelf worthy for a limited period, compost only
matured with age. When Fran thought about the rapid decline of the other local
businesses she felt a little guilty, and wondered why the planners of the
shopping mall had allowed her to survive. Unfortunately there was a reason. It
was standing in the greenhouse outside her office door.
The professional looking young man
with a smart suit and flash mobile probably had too many diplomas to be a
regular estate agent. As soon as Fran realised the purpose of his visit she
recalled that Frank Merryweather’s troubles had
started with a letter from some anonymous client offering to buy him out.
Although tough when handling
business matters, the appearance of this hardly weaned executive made Fran’s
blood run cold.
Her staff had just left so she locked the office door to come out into
the fuchsia house to meet him, only to realise that she was now too far from
the panic button. Though he was unlikely to give her reason to hit it, the
option would have been a comfort.
Of course, this young man’s client
was prepared to give her a good price for such a favourably situated site, and
shares in the development planned for it.
Fran’s response was immediate. ‘The
rest of Moltonford’s been concreted over. It doesn’t
need any more development.’
The young man was momentarily
disconcerted by the way the red-haired woman lowered her head as though about
to charge. He hadn’t been briefed to deal with this degree of recalcitrance. It
looked as though the menacing aura he had spent hours perfecting in front of
the executive washroom mirror would at last have its use.
‘You’ll never get another offer like
this. You could retire and live comfortably for the rest of your life.’
‘I’m used to working. My family
prefers to work until they die. This business has been good to me, and I’m
keeping it. Anyway, how can you be so sure you’d get the planning permission to
build on it?’
The young man’s smile was humourless
and sinister, as though some demonic entity was preparing to break through his
bland, pale skin. Planning permission was obviously no problem. ‘You’ve a very
long perimeter here. Must be difficult, keeping out intruders?’
‘Just the squirrels,
and they’re only here because they were evicted from Victoria Park. So what is
it your client wants to build on this site?’
If Preston Niblock
hadn’t put on crepe soled shoes for the first time in his life they would have
heard him come in. ‘How about another car park?’
They turned to see the master
jeweller lounging against the frame of the greenhouse door.
He hadn’t been part of the young
man’s equation. In fact, he had been given to believe that Preston Niblock was so overcome with grief he refused to leave his
house. But there he stood, tie-less, slightly dishevelled, and nonchalantly swinging
a carrier bag as though he had just been deadheading the roses with an
automatic pistol.
The visitor frowned. ‘What makes you
say that?’
Preston strolled in. ‘Oh come on, as
long as the industrial units in Archway Road refuse to part with their premises,
and nobody in the streets facing the mall will sell up, it’s obvious. There’s
no room in Palace Parade for cars and Gideon Enterprizes
isn’t going to use valuable shop floor space for parking.’
Having the advantage snatched away
from his well-manicured grasp, the visitor suddenly sounded older. ‘Who are
you?’
‘You know who I am. My name is Niblock, Preston Niblock. Your
client will certainly remember the name. My wife was “unlawfully killed” when
Frank Merryweather’s shop burnt down.’
Fran marvelled at the hardening of
her brother-in-law’s manner. It looked as though he was about to make up for a
lifetime of being mild and meticulous.
‘What are you saying?’ Though the
young man sounded threatening, he stepped back, knocking over a Dollar Princess
standard as the jeweller approached.
‘I
am saying that, if I ever discover who was responsible for my wife’s death, I
will destroy them. And if so much as a lit cigarette end falls onto a packet of
petunia seeds I shall go to the relevant authorities with a few surprising
geological facts.’
The young man hesitated. ‘What are
you talking about?’
‘You don’t need to know. Just tell
your boss. Now get out!’
Trying to stay cool, the interloper
picked up his briefcase and wended his way through the Campanella
and Lena Daulton to the entrance. Fran and
‘What was all that about?’ she
asked.
***
A
couple of days later, when Ben returned in his lorry from Italy at 10 o’clock
in the evening, the garden centre car park was suddenly floodlit and two huge
Alsatians hurtled at the perimeter fence. Then he noticed the razor wire that a
Russian vine was about to colonise. Even the family home next door to the
garden centre was equipped with automatic sensors, and as he opened the front
gate he was once again lit up like an ice show.
Not daring to find out what would
happen if he unlocked the front door, Ben rang the bell. His eldest son and two
grandchildren who were on the way out let him in.
‘What the hell’s going on?’
‘Mum’s had an odd visitor, but Uncle
Preston saw him off. How was
‘Still on the
right side of the
‘Great. See you.’
Late for bed, Josey
and Jim were bustled away to the car.
‘
After eight hours on the road he
didn’t really want to unravel the reason why his home had been fitted with
enough surveillance to deter a small army. By the time Fran had explained, he
realised he was older than he wanted to admit.
She poured some wine and went out to
throw together a stir-fry. ‘Sorry, should have warned you, but
‘Could
this bloke be something to do with the company that tried to buy out Merryweather’s?’
‘Wouldn’t be
surprised.
Ben tossed his lorry keys onto the
sideboard and pulled off his T-shirt and jeans. ‘No rice for me, love. I’m
trying to lose weight.’
Fran peered through the serving
hatch. ‘My God, with a gut like that you should stop eating at motorway café s.
And Ben...’
‘What?’
‘Draw the curtains, you’re scaring
the dogs.’
Ben had been on the verge of asking
if she wanted him to stay on for the rest of the week, then changed his mind.
He would probably only end up preparing meals for the resident security team.
‘Where did you get those animals?’
‘One of
Ben paled. ‘How do you mean?’
‘Word blindness.’
‘What? You mean they’re dyslexic?’
‘No. Couldn’t understand what “LET
GO!” meant.’
‘What?’
Fran’s face appeared at the hatch
again. ‘Only joking. Want mangetout?’