SUE WELFARE
A Few Little Lies

COPYRIGHT

This novel is a work of fiction. The names, characters and incidents portrayed in it are the work of the author’s imagination. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events or localities is entirely coincidental.

HarperCollinsPublishers

1 London Bridge Street,

London SE1 9GF

The HarperCollins website address is:

www.harpercollins.co.uk

This paperback edition 2000

First published in Great Britain by HarperCollinsPublishers 1998

Copyright © Sue Welfare 1998

Sue Welfare asserts the moral right to be identified as the author of this work

All rights reserved under International and Pan-American Copyright Conventions. By payment of the required fees, you have been granted the non-exclusive, non-transferable right to access and read the text of this e-book on screen. No part of this text may be reproduced, transmitted, down-loaded, decompiled, reverse engineered, or stored in or introduced into any information storage and retrieval system, in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereinafter invented, without the express written permission of HarperCollins.

HarperCollinsPublishers has made every reasonable effort to ensure that any picture content and written content in this ebook has been included or removed in accordance with the contractual and technological constraints in operation at the time of publication.

Source ISBN: 9780006514312

Ebook Edition © JUNE 2016 ISBN: 9780007401154

Version: 2016-08-03

DEDICATION

This book is dedicated, with fondest memories, to the late Mr C. A. Woolley and Mr Glyn Howells, dedicated educators, who encouraged my enthusiasm for books and words and who, at different times, both offered the sage advice: ‘Work more and talk less.’

CONTENTS

Cover

Title Page

Copyright

Dedication

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Chapter 13

Chapter 14

Chapter 15

Chapter 16

Chapter 17

Chapter 18

Chapter 19

Chapter 20

Chapter 21

Keep Reading

About the Author

Other Books By

About the Publisher

1

‘Letitia strode into the room, naked except for her bull whip and boots.

“I’ve come for you, Tony,” she murmured between full pouting carmine lips.

On the leather sofa, bound hand and foot, Tony Vincetti trembled.

“Oh, please don’t hurt me, Letitia,” he whispered, the sweat rising in glistening beads on his top lip.

They both froze as they heard the doorbell ring.’

‘Not in my book, they didn’t,’ Dora Hall whispered, pushing her glasses back up onto her nose. She erased the final sentence from the computer screen, then stretched, waiting for the machine to digest the latest morsel before leaning forward to switch it off.

Beside her, the intercom buzzed more insistently, followed closely by a thin, high-pitched voice through the speaker.

‘Dora, are you up there?’

Dora pushed the swivel chair away from the desk and yawned. It was extremely tempting to say no. Instead she pressed the call button.

‘Come up. Sheila, door’s unlocked.’

She padded into the kitchen, scratching and yawning deliciously with every step. Oscar, the resident ginger tom, mewled the lament of the wildly over-indulged and leapt onto the cooker, while she plugged in the kettle and lit a cigarette. Opening the fridge, Dora prised a carton of milk off the shelf and sniffed it speculatively.

A few seconds later Sheila, her sister, pushed open the kitchen door. She peered around and sniffed, looking rushed. Sheila inevitably looked rushed.

‘Oh, you’re in here, are you? I thought you told me you’d stopped smoking? You’ve left the street door on the latch again. Don’t know why you’ve bought that security thing, anyone can just walk up –’

Dora hunted around for the teapot. ‘I nipped across to the shop first thing.’

Sheila’s eyes narrowed. ‘Not like that, surely? You’re not ill are you?’ She picked her way across the kitchen and stood a wicker basket on the table amongst the debris of breakfast, letters and open books. Oscar headed towards the cat litter tray.

Dora glanced down at the grey dressing gown she was wearing and shook her head.

‘No, I’m fine. I’ve been up for hours. I’ve been working on the computer this morning. Would you like a cup of tea?’

‘You said quarter past ten,’ Sheila said flatly, tapping her watch for emphasis. She looked wounded, tipping her head accusingly to one side.

‘I did? I can’t remember saying quarter past ten. What was supposed to happen at quarter past ten?’

Sheila sniffed again. ‘I’ve been hanging around outside the post office for ages. Anything could have happened.’ She paused and pulled her suit jacket straight. ‘Absolutely anything.’

‘What was it I missed this time?’ asked Dora, noncommittally. ‘Tea?’

Sheila sighed, picking at a small dry stain on her lapel. ‘Just a quick one and then I’ve really got to get on. I told the vicar we’d go to his coffee morning today. Oh, and I’ve brought you these for that cat.’ She pulled a neatly tied bundle of newspapers out of the basket and added it to the chaos on the breakfast table. ‘I’d put us down for the washing up.’ Sheila ran her tongue over her teeth. ‘Too late now, of course. I’ll have to ring up and apologise when I get back.’

Dora fished two mugs out of the cold water in the sink.

‘I didn’t realise you’d promised anybody. I thought you said we were just going to raid the cake stall and rootle through the bring and buy. Why don’t you go into the sitting-room? I’ll bring the tea through.’ As she spoke she ran hot water over the remaining plates in the sink and added a squirt of washing-up liquid. It bubbled instantly and hid the debris of last night’s supper under a reassuring explosion of suds.

Sheila nodded, pointedly ignoring the grubby tea towel Dora had tucked over her arm, and the miasma emanating from Oscar as he strained triumphantly over the cat litter.

Obtusely Sheila stepped across the little hall into the adjoining room, barely bigger than a broom cupboard, that Dora used as her office. Dora scrubbed the rings off the cups, watching as her sister peered myopically at the blank computer screen.

‘So, how’s the translation coming along?’ Sheila’s high-pitched voice betrayed a rich mosaic of resentments.

Dora dropped two tea bags into the pot.

‘So-so, it’s a bit slow at the moment. How are the kids?’ She could see Sheila running a finger along her book shelves.

‘Not too bad, Jason’s getting his grommets next month,’ Sheila said distractedly. ‘Do you really read all these books?’

Dora carried the tray through and balanced it on a little table wedged between her desk and the office armchair.

‘Why don’t we go in the sitting-room. Sheila? You hate that armchair.’

Sheila shook her head, finger still working along the spines of the books arranged from floor to ceiling on the wall near Dora’s desk.

‘I prefer it in here, it’s the only room you keep tidy. There’s cat’s hairs everywhere on that settee.’ She paused. ‘We’re having a fund raiser next week, maybe you could sort out some of these you’ve finished with.’ Her stubby finger tapped on one spine. ‘I read about her in the paper. She’s going to be in Smith’s.’

Dora picked up her mug, gathering her dressing gown around her knees as she folded herself onto the swivel chair.

‘Who is?’

‘This Catiana Moran woman, she’s doing a book signing. I saw a bit about it in the Fairbeach Gazette. I think it’s one of the ones I brought –’

Sheila hurried back into the kitchen, reappeared carrying a newspaper, and began to thumb through the pages. She turned the paper back on itself and handed it to Dora.

‘There we are. What’s on in Fairbeach, half way down –’

Dora stared at a small grainy photograph.

‘Oh, yes,’ she said, swallowing down her surprise, and folded the paper alongside the tray. There was a familiar face on the front page. ‘My God,’ she whispered, scanning the headline. ‘I didn’t know Jack Rees had died.’

Sheila pulled a face. ‘Who?’

Dora slipped on her glasses. ‘Jack Rees, the MP?’ She glanced down the column.

‘Oh, him.’ Sheila’s face registered her disapproval. ‘Jumped-up nobody, him. His dad was a fishmonger in Railway Road, mum used to work in the Co-op.’ She sniffed dismissively and turned her attention back to Dora’s shelves.

Dora stared at the picture of Fairbeach’s famous son. There were few modern political giants from the fens, which had made Jack Rees all the more special – a true Fen tiger, a local hero who had dedicated his life to improving things in his home town. His features were so familiar that it felt as if she was looking at an old friend. She felt a peculiar little flurry of loss, while, across the room. Sheila pulled out one of the books.

‘You’ve got an awful lot of that woman’s stuff here,’ she observed, peering at the photograph of a lascivious wet-lipped nymphet draped provocatively across the front cover. ‘Do you read a lot of this sort of thing?’ she whispered, turning it over so she could read the jacket.

‘No, and I don’t think it’s really your sort of thing either,’ Dora said. Leaning forward, she prised the novel gently from between her sister’s fingers and slipped it back into the bookcase with the others. ‘And they’re definitely not suitable for a church bring and buy. Here, why don’t you have your tea? How about if I get dressed? I was going into town later anyway, we could go out for some lunch if you like. I’m sorry we missed your coffee morning.’

Sheila gazed back at the unbroken spines of Dora’s Catiana Moran collection.

‘No thanks, I ought to be getting back. I don’t see why you’ve got so many. There’s two of some. Three of this one. Passion in Paris.’

Dora nodded. ‘I get them sent to me by the publisher,’ she said casually, handing Sheila the sugar.

‘Oh, not one of those awful book club things?’ Her sister rolled her eyes heavenwards. ‘You really should write and get them to cancel your membership. Do you remember when Dad ordered that boat-building thing out of the Sunday colour supplement …’

As Sheila spoke, Dora surreptitiously slid her notes for the latest Catiana Moran novel under a pile of magazines and sat back to listen to her sister railing against the temptations of a mail-order culture.

Climbing the stone steps to Calvin Roberts’ office, Dora thought fleetingly about his strong jutting chin, his rippling muscles – and sighed – only in her dreams. Her agent was small, round, with a penchant for cheap cigars, Labradors he perpetually called Dido, and propagating geraniums. His office on Northquay, an elegant Georgian crescent that overlooked the tidal waters of the Western Ouse, smelt of all three, and was a brisk ten-minute walk from Dora’s flat in Gunners Terrace.

The girl behind the reception desk grinned at her. ‘Hello, Dora, how are you?’

Dora pulled a wry face. ‘Perfect. Is his lordship in?’

The girl nodded. ‘Just got back from walking the dog. He’s gone upstairs to read his horoscope. Do you want me to buzz him to let him know you’re here?’

‘Yes, you’d better. Can’t have our lord and master caught on the cusp –’

Calvin’s corner office was on the first floor. The opaque glass door bore the legend ‘Calvin Roberts, Literary Agent’ in faded gilt lettering arranged in a semicircle. Dora smiled as she turned the door handle. Calvin cheerfully embraced life’s clichés. His office always reminded her of something out of a Bogart movie.

Calvin was sitting at the desk in his shirt sleeves, his feet up on the windowsill, flicking through an impressive bundle of papers. Apparently deep in thought, he waved her in.

In a basket near the coat stand, the latest incarnation of Dido looked up with world-weary eyes and licked her lips. There was a rolled-up tabloid in the pocket of Calvin’s trench coat. It was still turned to the horoscope page.

‘Hello,’ Dora said, throwing her string bag onto his desk. ‘I hear you’ve found someone then?’

Calvin grinned, and swung round to face her. ‘Yes, yes, yes. She’s starting a promotion tour for the latest book next week.’

‘Calvin, I don’t think it’s supposed to work like this – I would really like to have seen this girl before you hired her.’

Calvin looked hurt. ‘You told me you didn’t want to be involved.’

Dora sighed. ‘I meant with all the admin, not who you picked. I don’t suppose it matters now, does it – the deed is done. Is she any good?’

Calvin grinned. ‘I think so. Just wait till you see her at work.’

Dora lifted an eyebrow. ‘At Smith’s in the High Street.’

‘You know about that?’ said Calvin, feigning surprise as he lit another fat little cigar.

‘I’m amongst the last by the looks of it. How did you manage to get her in there so quickly?’

Calvin tapped his nose. ‘It’s all to do with contacts, it’s not what you know – the manager owes me a favour.’

‘Better not tell me what. Have you got the kettle on yet?’

Calvin pressed the button on his phone. ‘Gena, can you bring up a pot of tea for myself and Mrs Hall?’

Dora leant over the desk, pushing her finger firmly down on top of his.

‘And if you’ve got any digestives in the tin, Gena, be a dear and bring them up.’ She paused. ‘Have you got a microwave in the office?’

The disembodied voice sounded surprised. ‘Yes, why?’

‘They’ve got some really good profiteroles in the freezer place in the precinct. If you nip out and get a couple of boxes I’ll treat you.’

Calvin extricated his finger and the line went dead.

‘Actually, I’m really glad you dropped in, I was coming to see you on my way home. Have you had the proofs of the latest book to correct yet? The guy at Bayers sent me the new covers over this morning.’ He pulled his in tray closer and scuffled through the heap of envelopes. ‘I’ve got them here somewhere. They’re not bad at all.’

Dora screwed up her nose. ‘Oh, please, Calvin, don’t bother. Wet-lipped lovelies with “Come up and see my etchings” eyes? They’re always the same. And no, I haven’t had the proofs yet.’ She paused. ‘Did you hear about Jack Rees?’

Calvin nodded. ‘Saw it on TV yesterday. Bloody shame, he was a good bloke. I nipped down to the Con Club, lunch time.’ He rolled his eyes heavenwards. ‘Total bloody chaos down there. Everyone running round like headless chickens. Jack’s a hard act to follow. We’re going to have a helluva job finding someone to fill his boots.’ He took a thoughtful puff on his cigar.

Dora snorted. ‘We? What’s with this “we” business? Have the Con Club finally given you sergeant’s stripes?’

Calvin deadpanned her. ‘Father-in-law’s on the selection committee. Anyway, about Catiana –’

Dora grinned and fished in her coat pocket for a roll of mints. ‘Smith’s next week,’ she said, waving the packet at Calvin.

He declined as she palmed a mint into her mouth. ‘Off the fags again? You’ll get fat.’

Dora threw herself onto the leather chesterfield under one of the windows and laughed. ‘Rubbish, I’m built like a ragman’s whippet. Besides, it won’t matter now that we’ve got a stand-in, will it? What’s she like? That picture in the Gazette was dreadful.’

Calvin grinned. ‘Pure twenty-four carat silicone.’ He held his hands out in an impressive gesture of size. ‘Teeth from ear to ear, big hair. She’s absolutely perfect. I’ve already sent some photographs off to the agony column in that dodgy magazine we signed you up for.’

Dora nodded ruefully. ‘Wonderful.’

‘Oh, and wait,’ said Calvin, warming to his subject. ‘Better yet. I may’ve got her on Steve Morley’s TV show.’

Dora screwed up her face. ‘That magazine thing they do from Norwich at tea time? How the hell can she pull that one off? She writes porn, for God’s sake.’

‘Wait, wait,’ said Calvin enthusiastically, clenching his fists. ‘A stroke of pure genius. As the subject is a bit risqué I’ve told them we need a list of questions up-front. They always pre-record some of it anyway. So, you can write the answers and Catiana can learn them.’

Dora sucked her teeth thoughtfully. ‘She can read as well, can she, Calvin? Good choice, good choice. And how exactly did you arrange this one off? Don’t tell me the manager owes you a favour.’

Calvin grinned, leaning back smugly in his swivel chair. ‘I’ve led young Steve to believe that I can get him one or two big names to give his show a bit of clout. The lad’s hungry, this is his first big break.’

At that moment there was a knock on the door. Calvin called Gena in and then looked across at Dora.

‘I’ve got you a ticket for the recording. You’ll get a chance to judge for yourself first hand. You’re a real stunner.’

Dora raised her eyebrows. ‘I can hardly wait,’ she said, as Gena stood the tray on Calvin’s desk.

Steam rose from a stack of sad-looking profiteroles. Gena blushed.

‘The defrost on the machine down there doesn’t seem to work, so I’ve given them a couple of minutes on full,’ she explained, hovering nervously.

Dora took a side plate from the tray and prised a dripping cake from the heap with a teaspoon – the chocolate bubbled ominously.

‘I’m sure they’ll be just fine,’ she said, ignoring the hiss as the cake landed on the plate.

Parking in Norwich was a complete bitch. Dora arrived late, feeling ruffled after the drive, and slid into a seat at the end of the aisle beside a large woman wearing a duffel coat. The lights in the television studio were already dimming. On the stage below the tiered seating, a small oily-looking man in a checked suit was running through a selection of extremely old jokes. He waved his arms towards the studio audience with gusto, as if he might be able to incite laughter by friction.

The woman in the duffel coat sniffed disapprovingly and began to rummage through her handbag. Further along the row a group of students sniggered, while on the studio floor, the camera crew stalked backwards and forwards around the set, hooked up to their cables and moving like bored fish. The warm-up man faded rather than finished and a polite flurry of sympathetic applause broke out amongst the audience.

A man with a clipboard, finger in his ear, stepped into a spotlight, his face fixed in a rictal grin.

‘Well, good evening, ladies and gentlemen,’ he smirked with genuine plastic warmth. ‘It’s a real pleasure to welcome you to …’ he glanced fleetingly at his clipboard ‘… tonight’s recording of “Steve Morley Moments”. Now, when Mr Morley comes on I’d like you to give him a really rousing welcome. The cameras will pan around the audience as the music comes on, so we want lots of smiles.’ He pulled his face into an even more exaggerated grimace. ‘Let the people at home know you’re really happy to be here.’

The woman next to Dora sniffed again and then unexpectedly offered her a mint humbug. Dora sucked her way through Steve Morley interviewing a poet with a lisp, a drum majorette troop, a mime artist …

She stifled a yawn. It was the first time she had been to see a television recording and she decided it would probably be the last. The mime artist left to a crackle of applause and a few bars of ‘The Entertainer’ played over the PA.

‘And finally, ladies and gentlemen …’ the unctuous tones of Steve Morley oozed through the loudspeakers from his mock, mock Tudor living room. He stepped forwards, lifting his arms as if he were bestowing a benediction on the audience.

‘… I’d like you to give a really warm Steve Morley welcome to Catiana Moran, the babe of the bed chamber, the first lady of lust …’ Over the PA came the antiquated bumps and grinds of ‘The Stripper’.

Dora leant forwards and let out a little hiss of admiration as Catiana Moran chasséd gracefully across the small stage. There was a flurry of applause that grew into a roar of approval as Catiana stepped into the spotlight.

The woman oozed sexual possibilities. Calvin had been spot-on with his description: she was statuesque with a great mane of tussled strawberry-blonde hair. Her little black dress, barely reaching mid-thigh, glistened over every curve, as if it had been sprayed on. Dora held her breath, while below her Catiana Moran curled herself provocatively onto Steve Morley’s leather sofa and crossed her impossibly long legs.

‘Good evening, Steve,’ she purred, in a voice that seemed to trickle, rich as pure caramel, from somewhere just below her navel.

Steve Morley flushed crimson and began to stutter.

‘Cut, cut,’ snapped the little man with the clipboard. ‘If we can take it from you saying, “Good evening, Steve”?’

Around Dora, the audience seemed to have woken up – all eyes firmly fixed on the reclining form of Catiana Moran.

‘Why not?’ the blonde whispered and repeated her opening line with – if anything – more sexual emphasis.

Steve Morley adjusted his tie and leant forwards, extending his hand. ‘Very nice to have you with us, Catiana. My first question is, can you tell us how you got started writing the books you’re so famous for?’

Catiana shifted position, rolling over on the sofa so that her chin was resting on her hands – the effect was devastating.

‘Oh, Steve, darling, everyone always wants to know that. Haven’t you got anything more interesting written down on your little clipboard?’

Dora mouthed the answers she had written, while the stunning strawberry blonde on the stage recited them. Catiana added extra emphasis to the word ‘clipboard’, imbuing it with a heady erotic frisson.

Steve Morley shuddered nervously and loosened his tie. ‘What about this latest book? Am I right in thinking that you’ve finally decided to go public and promote what the papers are calling “the hottest hot novel since time began”?’

Catiana ran her tongue around her scarlet lips. ‘Oh, yes,’ she whispered huskily. ‘Oh, yes …’

The audience, to a man, craned forwards to see how Steve Morley would cope with this siren.

Dora smiled and picked up her handbag before slipping silently into the aisle. She had to ring Calvin to tell him – for once – he’d got everything just about right. As she got to the exit she glanced back at the stage. Catiana Moran had slipped off her high heels and was stroking one foot over her long, long leg. Every eye in the house was on her. Steve Morley was practically drooling.

‘You said you didn’t even read her books.’ Sheila bustled along the shopping precinct in Fairbeach, clutching her brolly like a quarterstaff.

Close behind, head bowed against the scathing wind, Dora pulled her raincoat tighter.

‘Just call it curiosity,’ she said between gritted teeth, wondering what on earth had possessed her to ask Sheila to go with her to Smith’s.

Sheila snorted. ‘You’re not going to buy anything, are you?’

Dora pushed open the shop door and was struck by the heady aroma of new paper and warm damp bodies.

‘I might do. It depends,’ she said, over her shoulder.

She looked around, expecting to see Calvin Roberts lurking somewhere. Instead Catiana Moran was sitting alone at a trestle table near the book section, cradling a gold pen. Her nail varnish and the swathes of silk ribbon pinned around the table matched exactly.

In daylight, Catiana Moran was paler, slimmer – if anything more stunning – dressed in an impossibly tight copper dress that emphasised every electric curve. Against the backdrop of browsers and shoppers, wrapped up in their macs and sensible shoes, she looked like an exotic refugee from a night club, caught travelling home in her party clothes.

Several shoppers stopped to take surreptitious glances in her direction, a few ventured closer to be rewarded by her huge carnivorous smile. She worked through the little scrum around her with aplomb, flirting, teasing, tipping her head provocatively to listen to their messages and their dedications. She was a sequinned shark amongst a shoal of minnows. It was very difficult not to be impressed.

Sheila stepped closer to Dora, who was hovering, undercover, near the video section.

‘She looks a right tart,’ Sheila hissed. ‘She won’t sell a lot of that kind of thing in Fairbeach, you know. It was packed in here last week when that cookery woman came. She gave everyone bits of broccoli quiche.’

But Dora had already stepped towards the table. Catiana Moran looked up as Dora made her way to the front of the queue, and beamed, eyes glittering like bright shards of broken glass. Dora pointed towards the pile of novels stacked beside her.

‘Hello, are they going well?’ she asked unsteadily.

Her alter ego nodded. ‘Oh, yes. My books are ever so popular,’ she said in the same toffee-brown voice Dora had heard during the TV recording. ‘Have you read any of them?’ Catiana’s eyes were blue-green with tiny flecks of gold which glittered in the shop lights – she was truly beautiful.

Dora reddened as she felt Sheila approaching. ‘Yes,’ she said quietly, ‘every one of them.’

Catiana’s smile widened. ‘Oh, wonderful. Then you’re going to love the latest one. It’s really good.’

Dora took a book from the pile and slid it across the table. Behind them. Sheila sniffed as Catiana Moran opened the pages with carmine fingertips.

‘Would you like me to sign it for you?’ she purred.

Dora nodded. ‘Yes, please.’

She rolled the gold pen between her fingers. ‘Who would you like me to dedicate it to?’

‘Dora,’ Dora whispered in an undertone, ‘Dora Hall.’

Catiana whipped the pen across the fly leaf and pressed the book into Dora’s hand. ‘Enjoy,’ she murmured.

Reddening, Dora nodded and scuttled towards the cash desk. At her shoulder she could feel Sheila’s embarrassment throbbing like toothache. When Dora glanced back towards Catiana, the beautiful, predatory blonde was surrounded by a group of young men; she threw back her head and laughed as she pulled another book off the stack.

Dora laid her copy on the cash desk. The shop assistant slid it into a bag.

‘Do yer like her then?’ the woman asked, nodding towards the back of the store, as she handed Dora the change.

Dora smiled broadly. ‘Yes,’ she said softly, ‘I think I do.’

2

Lawrence Rawlings looked out of the window in his study. He could hear the bells of All Saints ringing in The Close. The panelled room was sparsely furnished with elegant pieces of antique furniture, so familiar that Lawrence barely noticed them. Nothing was out of place, which was how he preferred it. The spring sunlight picked out his distinctive features and then moved on to the family photographs and paintings on the wall, echoes of his past and present. Arms folded behind his back, he stretched up onto his toes. He didn’t turn round as the door opened, nor when the man he had invited settled himself into the chair on the far side of the ornate mahogany desk.

‘My family have lived in this house for seven generations,’ Lawrence said, in a voice that barely rose above a whisper – he could almost have been talking to himself. ‘We have been merchants, mayors, councillors, pillars of the establishment – centre stage in Fairbeach’s long and illustrious history.’

Behind him the man shuffled the chair closer to the desk. Lawrence paused.

‘I want you to find out everything you can about this young woman who calls herself Catiana Moran. Her real name is Lillian Bliss. I don’t need to explain the need for discretion. I want everything you can get your hands on. Is that perfectly clear?’

His guest made a noise, a low guttural sound that may or may not have been an answer.

‘There is an envelope on the desk with what details I already have, and your first cheque,’ continued Lawrence.

There were two magpies cavorting on the lawn near the orchard. One hopped up onto a low branch amongst the blossoms. Two for joy. Lawrence allowed himself a thin smile.

‘You know, my father planted that apple tree on the day I was born.’

His silent companion coughed. Lawrence Rawlings slipped his hands into the pockets of his tweed jacket and fingered the business card the man had sent with his brochure. ‘I think that will be all for the time being. I expect to hear from you soon. I’d like to make it clear that I am not used to this kind of thing; you are the first private detective I have ever felt the need to engage. Your card says Safeguard Associates. What should I call you?’

‘Milo,’ said his visitor. ‘Just call me Milo.’

When the door closed behind his visitor, Lawrence carefully opened the window and took his garden gun from the umbrella stand.

‘One for sorrow,’ he said wryly, closing one eye and taking aim. The 4.10 cracked out across the still morning. There was a flurry of feathers, black and white on the dewy grass. In The Close the five-minute bell rang. Lawrence checked his watch – he would just have time to get to Communion with his daughter Sarah, Calvin and the girls, if he hurried.

In her flat in Gunners Terrace, Dora was spooning tuna chunks onto a saucer, while something vaguely musical rattled around inside the radio. Oscar insisted she work faster, his thoughts so loud that she glared at him furiously.

‘Pack it in, I hear you, I hear you. Talk to the guys who decided tuna should be sold in second-hand submarines, it’s knackered my tin opener.’

The cat narrowed his eyes and his thoughts became unrepeatable.

Sunday mornings were quiet. Once a month Dora put flowers on an unmarked grave and then went for a girls-only lunch at Sheila’s, while her brother-in-law and their two children went fishing. On the draining board, in a milk bottle, stood a single cream rose: a fitting floral tribute.

From the office she heard the sound of the phone and hurried to get to it before the answering machine cut in.

At the far end of the line Calvin Roberts chuckled.

‘Morning, Dora. Got your message. Sorry I didn’t get back to you sooner. I’m glad you liked Catiana. I got the page proofs for One Hundred and One Hot Nights yesterday. Would you mind if I popped round for a few minutes and dropped them off?’

Dora sighed. ‘Six days shalt thou labour, Calvin. Surely a good High Church boy like you has got that tattooed somewhere significant. Haven’t you got a regular Sunday morning assignation with the Almighty?’

Calvin snorted. ‘It’s the wife who’s the God-botherer, Dora, not me. I’m firmly aligned with Mammon, and trust me she’s not tattooed, I would have noticed. So, what shall we say? Ten minutes?’

Dora sighed. ‘Calvin. It’s Sunday. I’m just about to go out for lunch.’

‘Don’t tell me – roast chicken with Sheila?’ said Calvin flatly. ‘I bet you can hardly wait.’

Dora rolled her eyes heavenwards. Calvin definitely knew too much about her private life.

‘Ten minutes,’ she said, and hung up.

Dora heard the doorbell ring just after she’d convinced herself Calvin wasn’t coming after all. She pressed the security button and was about to call him up when she heard another voice over the speaker – a low, throaty chuckle alongside Calvin’s cheerful greeting.

‘Have you got someone with you?’ Dora demanded, as the downstairs door opened: She waited apprehensively in the hall. Calvin, cigar in hand, pushed open the landing door. Just ahead of him, nestled in the crook of his arm, was Catiana Moran. She was wearing a pair of navy pedal pushers, cream high-heeled mules and a matching angora sweater, all wrapped around in a fake-fur jacket.

There was a peculiar time-defying moment when Dora stared at Catiana and Catiana stared back.

Catiana nibbled her beautifully painted lips. ‘Hello, Mrs Hall,’ she said, offering her hand. ‘Pleased to meet you.’

Calvin steered the girl into the hall before Dora had chance to reply or protest.

‘Dora, may I present Miss Lillian Bliss or, should I say. Miss Catiana Moran.’

Dora shook the girl’s hand, knowing full well she had her mouth open but feeling completely powerless to close it. Finally, she forced a smile and in a tight, uneven voice suggested they might be more comfortable in the sitting room.

As Lillian shimmied through the door, Dora beaded Calvin and with a curled finger invited him to follow her into the kitchen. Still smiling he did as he was told.

‘I’ve got your page proofs. One Hundred and One Hot Nights, straight off the press,’ he said, clutching a padded envelope in front of his rotund little belly like a shield. Dora pushed the door to behind him.

‘Page proofs?’ she hissed.

Calvin took a healthy chug on his cigar and shrugged. ‘Lillian said she’d like to see where you worked, give her a sense of her life, her background.’

Dora stared at him. ‘Her background? What background? She doesn’t have a background, Calvin. She’s a model. You wind her up, pay her her money and send her home. We hired her so that I could keep my background to myself –’ Dora knew she was fast running out of words, they were all jammed up behind by a little scarlet flare of indignation.

Behind them Lillian pushed the kitchen door open.

‘Sorry, Mrs Hall,’ she said tentatively, peering into the room. ‘I hope I’m not interrupting anything, I just wondered if I could use your loo?’

Before Dora could answer, Calvin smiled. ‘Sure thing, sweetheart. It’s the second door on the right. Dora was just saying how nice it was to meet you. She was about to put the kettle on.’

Dora groaned and Lillian slipped away, tip-tapping in her mules across the lino.

‘Sweetheart?’ Dora hissed.

Calvin shrugged. ‘She’s a nice girl. She just wanted to come up and see where you worked. It’ll make her more real, more convincing – like method acting.’

Dora slammed the kettle under the taps. ‘We’re talking about a model signing a few books here, Calvin, not Brando.’

Calvin pouted. ‘Actually, that’s what I wanted to discuss.’

Dora had a sense of foreboding. ‘Sorry?’

Calvin dropped the envelope onto the kitchen table. ‘My phone’s been ringing off the hook since Lillian did the Steve Morley show. Regional TV want her to do a late-night slot on the Tuesday arts programme.’ He paused. ‘We just need another script. I’ve put the questions in there, they faxed them through first thing this morning.’

Dora threw two bags into the teapot.

‘Another script,’ she repeated. ‘When are they going to record the programme?’

Calvin puffed out his cheeks. ‘It’s going out live on Tuesday night.’

Dora was about to speak but Calvin hurried on.

‘Lillian’s a natural, Dora, she learns really quickly, all she needs to swing it is your script.’

Dora licked her lips. ‘I see. So when do you need this work of literary genius?’

Calvin smiled. ‘By tomorrow afternoon. Won’t be a problem, will it?’

It was not the easiest social event Dora had ever hosted. Lillian Bliss perched on the edge of the settee, looking around, taking in everything with her bottle-blue eyes, unsure quite what to say. Calvin hid behind a cloud of cigar smoke and Dora played mother.

‘Do you live locally?’ she asked, trying to fill the choking silence.

Lillian smiled. ‘I do now. I’ve just got a new flat.’

From the corner of her eye Dora noticed Calvin wince slightly, and played the advantage.

‘Really,’ she said, handing the girl a cup of tea. ‘That’s nice. Whereabouts?’

Lillian simpered in the general direction of Calvin Roberts. ‘Calvin’s found me a really nice place down by the river. One of those new warehouse conversions?’ She wrinkled up her nose. ‘It’s funny, me getting a nice place like that and you living here …’ She stopped, and glanced round the room, blushing furiously. ‘Well, it is small, isn’t it? Not like I imagined at all, really. Not that it’s not nice, I mean, I’m not saying …’ She stopped dead, tripping over her own embarrassment, then took a deep breath and started again. ‘I saw a film about this famous American writer once, she’d got this big house on the beach. And a little fluffy white dog. Calvin said …’

Calvin coughed theatrically before Lillian got a chance to share what it was he’d said. He tugged at his waistcoat.

‘Er, right, I think we ought to be going now. Maybe Dora could just show you her office and then we can get on our way.’

Dora suppressed a smile and picked at the cat’s hairs on the arm of the chair.

Lillian pouted. ‘I haven’t finished my tea yet. Bunny,’ she protested in a little-girl-lost voice.

Calvin waved her to her feet. ‘Don’t worry about the tea,’ he said briskly. ‘Let’s look at the office. We’ll get some lunch on the way home.’

Lillian beamed. ‘Oh, all right,’ she said enthusiastically and turned her piranha smile on Dora. ‘I wanted to know where I write all that stuff. That’s why I wanted to come.’ She stopped and buffed her smile up. ‘And to meet you, of course.’

Dora lifted an eyebrow and stared pointedly at Calvin, who coughed again.

‘Come on then,’ he blustered. ‘We’ll take a look at the office and then we’ll be off.’

There was barely room for two in the office. Dora hung back while Lillian looked around, running a painted fingernail over the books and shelves. Calvin stood in the doorway.

Dora grinned at him. ‘Bunny, eh?’ she whispered in an undertone.

‘She’s just naturally affectionate,’ hissed her agent.

Dora suppressed a smile. ‘You surprise me.’

Satisfied, Lillian looked up. ‘Okay, all done,’ she said cheerfully. She glanced at Dora. ‘Calvin said you were going out to lunch, would you like to come with us?’

Dora felt Calvin bristle. She smiled and shook her head. ‘That’s really very kind, Lillian, but no thanks, actually I’ve been invited to my sister’s.’

‘We could drop you off on the way,’ continued Lillian. ‘It wouldn’t be any trouble, would it. Bunny?’

In spite of herself, Dora felt a rush of affection for her alter ego. She shook her head again, Calvin shuffling uncomfortably beside her.

‘That’s very nice of you, Lillian, but it’s not far and I enjoy the walk.’

At the top of the stairs, Lillian thanked her for tea, buttoned up her jacket and was gone. Calvin adjusted his crombie.

‘Nice girl,’ he said, teeth closing on his cigar.

Dora grinned. ‘I hope you’ve got a licence.’

‘Uh?’

‘Dangerous animals act, you’re supposed to apply for a licence.’

Calvin snorted. ‘Are you sure you don’t want to be dropped off anywhere?’

Dora shook her head. ‘No thanks, Calvin, just make sure, between the pair of you, you don’t drop me in it.’

Calvin squared his shoulders. ‘Have I ever let you down?’ he murmured and lifted a hand in farewell.

Dora didn’t feel he deserved an answer.

On a corner plot in the newly, dismally developed Harvest Meadows, Sheila was already busy in the kitchen, slipping a tray of gold-tinted roast potatoes back into the oven.

Dora hung her coat in the hall cupboard. ‘Everyone out?’

Sheila wiped the steam from her glasses.

‘Uh huh. You’re late. Have you taken your shoes off? That Axminster’s new. Lunch will be ready in half an hour.’ She peered at Dora. ‘I don’t know how you stay so slim, all the rubbish you eat. Doesn’t seem right. I only have to look at a cream cake and I put on half a stone.’ Sheila tugged her apron down over her ample hips. ‘Is that the dress we got from Marks?’

After the cool sharp air outside, the kitchen seemed uncomfortably hot. Dora glanced round at Sheila’s immaculate work surfaces, and sighed. ‘It was the only thing I’d got left that was clean. I’ve had company this morning –’ And on reflection the company had left her with a disturbing sense of unease.

Sheila was oblivious, setting out gleaming cups and saucers on a doily-covered tray.

‘You ought to take more care of yourself. I’ve told you I’ll come and give you a hand with your housework if you like; two fifty an hour. Cash of course.’

Dora grinned. ‘Pinkerton’s going rate?’

Sheila shook her head and wiped up an imaginary sugar spill. ‘Never heard of them. An agency, are they?’

‘It was a joke. Can I help you with anything?’

Sheila sniffed. ‘It’s all done now. You didn’t come through the Milburn Estate again, did you?’ she demanded, arranging bourbons on a small silver plate.

‘Never miss.’ Dora leant over and prised a broken biscuit from the crinkly red plastic packaging before Sheila could consign it to the swingbin. ‘It’s a really pretty walk through those new little designer houses round the back. They’ve landscaped the parking bays now. Weeping willows and red hot pokers, very Sunday supplement.’

‘It’s sick. You didn’t put flowers down again?’

‘A single cream rose.’

Sheila sighed. ‘People talk, you know.’

‘It seems very fitting to mark the place where my husband died.’

‘That would be all very well if he was dead.’

Dora crunched the biscuit, hoovering wayward crumbs into her mouth with her tongue. ‘He might as well be. I like to mark the spot where our marriage finally passed away.’ She lifted her hands to add dramatic emphasis. ‘One final, fatal collision between magnolia and sage-green emulsion that changed two lives irrevocably.’

Sheila pursed her lips and picked up the tray. ‘Sick.’

‘I’m much happier now.’

‘People do not get divorced over emulsion.’

‘It was the final straw.’

Sheila sniffed. ‘Twenty years.’

‘Do we always have to talk about this? You always bring it up, it’s over, gone, dead.’

Sheila stood to one side while Dora opened the sitting-room door for her. ‘Talking about dead. Did you see they’re having Jack Rees’ funeral next week? Taken their time to get it organised. I suppose it’s getting all those bigwigs down here. It’s all over the Gazette. They did a special pull-out bit. You’d think he was royalty, the fuss they’re making.’ She took a newspaper out of the magazine rack. ‘I kept it for you.’

Dora stared down again at the familiar stranger’s face. Jack Rees was a local legend, a heroic tribal warrior woven into the fabric of Fairbeach history. She scanned the article – he’d been in his sixties. The report said it was his heart.

A small pain formed in her chest which she recognised as grief. It took her by surprise, though she knew the pain wasn’t personal, but an abstract, unexpected sense of loss for the passing of someone of worth.

The pain, mixed with her earlier unease, made her feel faint. She stood very, very still, aware of Sheila’s voice like a distant echo over the roar of the wind. The sitting room suddenly seemed as if it were a bright patchwork quilt of colours and light, all sewn together by Sheila’s insistent running-stitch voice.

Sheila rearranged the tray on a coffee table and picked up the newspaper, glancing over the same front page, talking all the time. She stepped closer, into sharp focus, every last stitch of her best Sunday dress and her best Sunday face caught in a spotlight’s glare in Dora’s mind. Sheila, Calvin and Lillian Bliss were just too much for anyone on a quiet Sunday morning. She suddenly felt sick.

‘… I used to see him in town sometimes in that big car of his.’ Sheila leant forward to pick up her reading glasses, her tone cruelly derisive. ‘Coronary it says here, too much fancy living, if you ask me, “found dead on Saturday morning in his home in Parkway by his housekeeper.” The rest is all stuff about how much he will be missed …’ Sheila flicked the glasses off the bridge of her nose and dropped the paper back onto the coffee table. ‘Well, I won’t miss him. They’re all the same if you ask me. Out for what they can get, all of them.’ She sniffed again. ‘Housekeeper, I ask you –’

Dora smiled, trying not to let Sheila infuriate her; it was an uphill struggle.

Sheila peered at her. ‘What are you looking at?’

Dora forced another smile. ‘I don’t feel very well,’ she said quickly, suddenly dizzy. ‘Would you mind if I gave lunch a miss today?’

Sheila grimaced. ‘You might have rung and said something. Do you want me to call a taxi? You’ve gone really white.’

Dora shook her head. ‘No, no. I think the fresh air might do me good.’

Sheila fetched her coat and shoes, lips pressed tight together with a mixture of concern and pique. From the kitchen came the hot, greasy smells of lunch cooking. It was all Dora could do to stop herself from retching. Slipping on her coat, she smiled unsteadily.

‘I’ll ring you later when I get home.’

Sheila nodded, shaking Dora into her coat as if she were a child. ‘Hormones,’ she observed sagely, ‘that’s what I put it down to, it’s your age. I should go home and have a nice rest if I were you, put your feet up. Are you sure you don’t want me to ring you a cab?’

Dora shook her head and let herself out.

Outside spring had painted everything with great daubs of sunlight and impressionist daffodils. Dora smiled and pulled her coat tighter. Whatever it was, the pain had gone. She cut through the garages, back towards the town centre.

‘Would-you-like-to-tell-us-a-little-bit-about-your background?’ Safely back at her flat, Dora read aloud, typing in the words as she recited them. Relieved to be excused the ritual of Sheila’s Sunday lunch, she took a bite out of a sandwich, and scanned the rest of the questions scheduled for Catiana’s interview. Sunday afternoon, away from Sheila’s pink paper napkins, and everywhere was blessedly quiet. Dora stretched, lifted her glasses to pinch the bridge of her nose, and then reread Calvin’s fax.

The Fenland Arts production team certainly hadn’t stretched themselves, but then again maybe Calvin had warned them off. Dora stared up at the ceiling, screwing up her nose as she tried to get a fix on Catiana Moran’s fictitious origins.

‘I did think about being a nun,’ she typed slowly, searching for a punchline. ‘But …’

‘… But I look awful in black. And those house rules –’ Catiana Moran rolled her eyes heavenwards. On the TV screen, she ran her tongue around her beautifully painted mouth.

Dora shifted Oscar off her lap and lit another cigarette before turning up the volume on her ageing TV. Lillian Bliss was good – just give her the words and she delivered them with faultless comic timing. Dora glanced down at the draft copy of the script, following the lines she had written with her finger.

On screen, Rodney Grey from ‘Fenland Arts Tonight’, reclining in his black leather chair, laughed. His amused expression couldn’t quite hide his disdain. It was obvious he thought the interview was beneath him.

‘So when did you start writing seriously? Most people would like to know whether you’re writing from personal experience. In your latest book …’

On the set, Lillian was waiting for her next cue. The interviewer, still talking, touched the microphone in his ear and smiled wolfishly. For some reason the gesture and his expression made Dora shiver. She sensed something was happening but wasn’t sure what it was.

Rodney Grey leaned forward onto his elbows, turning a pen slowly between his long fingers.

‘Why don’t you tell us the truth. Miss Moran? I mean, this stuff you churn out is hardly great literature, is it? It’s upmarket porn. Cheap titillation for the masses –’

Dora tensed; that wasn’t in the script. Lillian pouted and stared at him blankly. He hadn’t fed her the cue line. She was completely lost.

The interviewer’s smile hardened. ‘Well?’ He slapped the front of the novel on the little table between them. ‘How can you justify this kind of cheap smut?’

Dora leapt off the sofa. ‘What are you doing?’ she hissed impotently at the TV. Oscar took the hint and scrambled for cover.

Lillian Bliss gnawed at her lip – there seemed to be an agonising, bottomless silence. After a few seconds, Lillian leant forward, eyes glittering, and very, very slowly the camera followed.

‘You horrible stuck-up little bastard. I knew you didn’t like me the minute I laid eyes on you,’ she snapped with suprising venom. ‘I wasn’t taken in by all that smarming round me in the dressing room – if I spoke with a plum in my mouth it would be different, wouldn’t it? Have you ever read one of the Catiana Moran books? Just because they’re dirty you think they can’t be any good. The latest one’s brilliant –’

Dora stared open-mouthed at the TV. She was stunned. She couldn’t have said it better herself.

Lillian Bliss took a deep breath. ‘I got into writing because I wanted to, and they say write about what you know – so I did.’ Lillian reached across the carefully arranged coffee table and plucked the novel out of Grey’s hands. ‘I’ve got this horrible poky little flat in Fairbeach, above the shoe shop in Gunners Terrace …’

Dora felt her colour draining. ‘No,’ she said to the girl on camera, as it moved in for a close-up. Lillian’s face filled the screen, her bottle-blue eyes locked fast on Rodney Grey.

‘You wouldn’t believe the things I’ve had to do to make ends meet. You’re all the same, you lot. There was this bloke, just like you, he was. Got a degree, talked all la-di-da. I’ll think of his name in a minute. He liked me to –’

‘No,’ Dora repeated more forcefully, barely able to watch.

Rodney Grey’s face was a picture. He glanced at the clipboard on his lap and, with remarkable presence of mind, began to speak.

‘So, Catiana, why don’t you tell us all about this new promotion tour of yours?’ he asked quickly, reverting to the script, stretching the words in front of Lillian like a trip wire.

Lillian looked up at him, blinked, gathered herself together, and cheerfully recited Dora’s answer as if nothing had happened.

Dora, who suddenly realised she hadn’t taken a breath for a very long time, let out a long, throaty sob.

‘Oh, my God,’ she murmured and slumped back onto the sofa.

Dora hurried into the office and banged in Calvin’s home number. In the sitting room, the credits for ‘Fenland Arts Tonight’ were rolling slowly up the screen. Behind them, Rodney Grey and Lillian Bliss were reduced to razor-sharp silhouettes.

Calvin picked up the phone on the second ring. Dora stared blankly at the TV, and realised she didn’t know what she wanted to say, or at least, didn’t know what she wanted to say first. There were so many things, the words clumped together in her throat in a log jam.

Calvin was ahead of her. ‘Hello, Dora, I was just going to ring you. Don’t worry–’

‘Don’t worry?’ Her voice sounded like fingernails on glass.

‘I know exactly what you’re going to say.’

‘You do? Well, in that case I don’t need to tell you I’ve just torn up our contract, do I? Or that thanks to you and your little friend, every pervert in East Anglia – including my sister – now knows where I live, or that …’

‘Whoa, whoa,’ soothed Calvin. ‘Your sister doesn’t watch the arts programmes, she told me …’

‘Calvin! Your protegée has just announced my address to the nation.’

Calvin coughed uncomfortably. ‘Not the nation, Dora, just East Anglia.’ He puffed thoughtfully. ‘Late Tuesday night? Good film on BBC2? God, hardly anybody’s watching. Look, I’m sorry. What else can I say? That bastard Grey set her up. He tricked her.’

‘What’s to trick?’ Dora hissed. ‘That girl is dangerous. She called Rodney Grey a horrible little bastard, on TV, to his face –’ As she said it she giggled, which surprised both of them. Hysteria, it had to be.

Whatever it was, Calvin suddenly choked and then drew in a long snorting breath.

‘I know,’ he chuckled. ‘Brilliant, wasn’t it? I mean, the guy’s such a complete and utter prick. Did you see his face when she started to tell him about the man with the degree?’ He was wheezing now, almost unable to breathe for laughing.

‘Stop it, Calvin, this isn’t funny. This really won’t do, you’ve got to talk to her,’ Dora snapped. ‘I live here. Muzzle her.’

‘I will, I will,’ Calvin giggled, and hung up.

The phone rang before Dora had a chance to turn around. She bit her lip and picked it up on the third ring.

‘Hello,’ said Sheila. ‘That writer woman you like is on the telly. I just caught the end bit – were you watching it?’

Dora groaned, wondering how much of Lillian’s interview Sheila had seen. Taking a deep breath, she jerked the phone plug out of the wall.

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