‘I said, leave it.’
I watched as he lifted his hand to alert one of the prison officers, who had the type of physique you wouldn’t want to meet down an alley late at night. The man walked over to us.
‘I want to go back to my cell now,’ said Ace.
‘All right, mate. Time’s up, miss,’ the guard added to me.
Ace stood up. ‘Thanks for trying to help, Cee, but really, there’s nothing you can do, believe me.’
Outside the prison, waiting for the bus that would take me back into central London, I realised that Star was right. Even if it got Ace nowhere in the long run, I had to show him that at least someone cared.
I knew what it felt like to be a beaten dog.
35
The jet lag didn’t seem to want to leave me alone, so I was awake again early the next morning. Firstly, I called Ma and told her I would meet her off the plane from Geneva at Heathrow on Monday afternoon. Then, at nine o’clock sharp, I called the Berners Bank number Star had left for me.
‘Hello, can I speak to Linda Potter, please?’
‘I’m afraid she’s left,’ said a clipped female voice. ‘Are you the lady that called a couple of days ago?’
‘Yes, I was just . . .’ – I thought quickly – ‘trying to contact her because she’s meant to be coming to my birthday party tonight and I, um, haven’t heard from her.’
‘Well, you’d be best to try her at home.’
‘Yeah, but . . .’ I paused, searching my brain cells for every thriller I’d seen to tell me what to say. ‘I’m at the venue now and she isn’t answering her mobile. I don’t have her landline number with me – have you got it at your end?’
‘Yes, wait a minute.’
I held my breath.
‘It’s . . .’
‘Thanks so much,’ I said, as I wrote the number down. ‘It’s a really special birthday and it wouldn’t be the same without her.’
‘I understand. It’ll probably cheer her up a bit. Bye now.’
‘Bye.’
I did a little wiggle of triumph around my vast sitting room before I collected myself and dialled Linda’s number. My heart was pounding as the line rang, then finally clicked onto an answering machine and I hung up. Then I called Star, as I had no idea what my next step should be.
‘Okay,’ she said. ‘You need her address. Hold on a minute.’
I could hear her chatting in the background with a deep, velvety male voice.
‘Cee, I’m going to pass you over to Orlando, Mouse’s brother. He’s fantastic at playing detective.’
‘Miss Celaeno?’
‘Yes, but call me CeCe.’
‘Goodness, I do wish those blessed with unusual Christian names would actually use them. If anyone but my nephew would even dare call me “Lando”, I should go into a funk for the rest of the year. Now then, Miss Star tells me you need the address of a person.’
‘I do, yes,’ I replied, trying to stifle a giggle at the old-fashioned way he spoke.
‘Well now, I’ve just checked on the computer and the 01233 dialling code tells me your mystery woman hails from Kent. In fact’ – there was a pause as I heard him tap the keys – ‘to be precise, Ashford. A quality little town, which is coincidentally very near to here. So, now I am searching the online electoral register in that area for a Linda Potter. Bear with me, please, while I scroll . . . ah, yes! Here she is. The Cottage, Chart Road, Ashford, Kent.’
‘I’ll text it to you, Cee,’ said Star as she came straight back on the line. ‘Are you going to see her? It’s only an hour’s train ride from Charing Cross station.’
‘She might be away.’
‘Or lying low. Hold on . . .’
I waited as a discussion ensued between Orlando and Star.
Star came back on the line. ‘It’s only a short drive to Ashford from High Weald. What about if we go and stake the house out for you?’
‘You really don’t have to, Sia, it’s not like it’s life or death or anything.’
‘It might be to Ace, Cee. We could check if there’s any sign of an occupant before you traipse down here.’
‘Okay,’ I agreed, wondering whether Star’s life was simply so dull that she had to fill it with weird missions to see a woman neither of us had ever met, on the off chance she could help a man who was in jail for fraud, who never wanted me to darken his doorstep again.
‘We’ll go during our lunch hour,’ said Star. ‘Orlando can be my lookout.’ The two of them giggled like kids on Halloween, so I said my thank yous and left them to it.
Ten minutes later, the doorbell rang. It was the estate agent I’d contacted about selling the apartment.
We shook hands and he wandered around nodding and grunting. Eventually, he came to me and gave a dramatic sigh.
‘What’s the matter?’
‘Well, you must know the state of the property market in London at the moment?’
‘No, I haven’t got a clue.’
‘To put it bluntly, it’s dire.’
And then, the same man who had sold me the apartment in the first place by extolling its virtues proceeded to explain to me why no one else would ever buy it, certainly not at the price I’d bought it for anyway.
‘The market’s flooded with new-build waterside apartments, a third of which are currently standing empty. It’s the subprime market in America that’s doing it, of course, but everything has a knock-on effect.’
Christ!
‘Could you just tell me in plain English what you think I should put the apartment on the market for?’
He did, and I nearly gave him a serious black eye.
‘That’s twenty per cent less than I paid for it!’
‘Sadly, Miss D’Aplièse, the property market is a law unto itself. It relies on sentiment, which, unlike waterside apartments, is in short supply at the moment. It will come back, of course, as it always does in London. If I were you and didn’t need the money, I’d hedge my bets and rent it out.’
We then discussed how much I could rent it out for, which actually, to someone like me, was enough money to keep me in ’roo dinners for years and years. He said his agency would handle everything, so we signed some forms and shook hands. I gave him a spare key and just as I was showing him out, my mobile rang.
‘Sia?’ I said breathlessly.
‘We’re here.’
‘Where’s “here”?’
‘Sitting outside Linda Potter’s house. She’s in.’
‘How do you know?’
‘Orlando knocked on her door, and when she opened it, he announced himself as the local Conservative candidate for the area. I said that the Monster Raving Loony Party might be more applicable . . .’
Howls of laughter ensued down the line. When the two of them had recovered, Star continued. ‘Anyway, I took over from Orlando and introduced myself as his secretary and her face lit up. She told me that she was “once a private secretary to a very important man”.’
‘Oh,’ I said. ‘Was that significant?’
‘Hang on, Cee, let me tell you the rest. I then asked her if she was retired. She nodded and said yes. “Put out to grass before my time,” were her words. Orlando and I think she was got rid of.’
‘Maybe it was just her time to retire?’
‘We reckon she’s not even fifty yet.’