Charlie drove home slowly after leaving Seer Green, deep in thought, balancing probabilities and possibilities as he drove. He knew Jennifer would be suspicious. But he could live with suspicion, because she would also be uncertain. He had a little time in hand to determine his future. He wanted to slam a door tight shut on Fulmer, and live a dream life, stretching out into a hazy horizon of happiness. Bella would have money, and he still had his City qualifications. He could build her a good portfolio, and make her even richer. Lunches on sunny terraces, afternoons enjoying the bliss of success, nights enfolded in Bella’s arms. It was a beautiful dream.
But it was a dream, a hope, an expectation. He had to burn all his bridges, and trust himself to a woman he had known just for a few warm hours. He took a deep breath as he parked the Volvo in front of the house. He had a dream, and a chance. Just one dream, and just once chance. Suddenly he grinned. Chance wanted to make his dream come true, but destiny waited on decision. Only a coward could refuse a combination of Bella and France, and he feared nothing, and nobody. He would make his bed, and lie in it with Bella, and count on heaven for salvation.
He crunched cautiously across the gravel in front of the house towards the front door. He might have decided his future, but he wanted no fighting. He let himself into the house very softly, his key barely making a sound. The Tindal home was a little smaller than the white house out past Seer Green, but it was still a home to engender pride. The hall was small, but the pictures hanging on the walls were good, and the drawingroom was very comfortable: one wall filled with watercolours by earlier Tindal generations, another with a large French oak display cabinet housing a collection of decorative glassware that Jennifer had accumulated over the years. But there was no sign of Jennifer. Charlie advanced cautiously towards the conservatory at the back of the house. She was probably working on chandeliers, and he must be careful, because Jennifer intent was always Jennifer on a short fuse, liable to explode at any interruption. The door to the extension was open, and he could see her bent over a chandelier carcass, doing something intricate with a pair of pliers, and he diverted into the kitchen. He would made coffee, and it would be a sign of goodwill.
He waited cautiously as the coffee brews, but nothing happened, although Jennifer must by now have heard him moving about. Then he filled a cup, adding sugar, stirred, and carried the coffee into the extension to place it silently at her elbow. Not a word: she might have been lost to the world. He was just turning to get a cup for himself when she spoke.
‘Are you feeling guilty?’ Jennifer’s tone was sharp.
Charlie stopped short. ‘Not particularly.’ He replied with equal terseness, for he had nothing on his conscience. Nothing that he wanted to talk about. ‘I had a good lunch.’
‘You were long enough.’ She paused, placing her pliers carefully on the table, and looked up at him, her eyes stern and deeply suspicious. ‘What have you brought back with you?’
Charlie shook his head. ‘It was furniture. I told her to take it to Christies.’
Jennifer raised her wrist to study her watch pointedly. ‘You were gone long enough. Why Christies? What’s wrong with the shop?’
He sighed. This was going to be difficult. ‘She had a big Victorian mahogany partner’s desk, an early Victorian or Georgian breakfront bookcase, and a Victorian mahogany dining table, a collection of Victorian silver, and a complete Sevres dinner service. They were beautiful pieces, real trophies; she said they had either belonged to her husband or been wedding presents and she wanted shot of them. I reckoned them to be worth twenty to thirty thousand overall, maybe more.’
‘I see.’ Jennifer was a little stumped for words. She knew, and she knew that Charlie knew, that twenty thousand - let alone thirty thousand - lay way beyond the shop’s buying potential, and she could not flaw his logic. But she could sense a aura of guilt around him, and she was determined to discover the cause. ‘So you just looked at some furniture and had lunch?’
Charlie nodded without speaking.
‘She didn’t invite you into her bed?’
He shook his head, again without speaking. He had been invited into no bed, though he might have found himself on one.
‘No hanky-panky?’
Another shake. A half lie led easily on to a full one, and he was not about to place a noose around his own neck and kick away a chair from under his feet into the bargain.
‘You just looked at furniture for the best part of three hours?’
‘We talked.’ Stonewalling grew easier with every word. ‘She told me that she came from France.’ Charlie let his voice tail away. He did not want to fight, but he would fight if he must. ‘She said she was going to sell up and move back.’
Jennifer listened, filled with deep mistrust. She knew that Charlie had long dreamed of moving to France, and was sure that he was hiding things from her. But things might well just be kisses, with him hoping for more, and kisses were no real ground for terminal showdowns, particularly as she herself had grown quite warm with Freddie. She stared at him hard, searching his eyes, but saw nothing to betray him, and after a long moment dismissed him with a grunt, to sulk during dinner. Afterwards she tried questioning him again rather half-heartedly. But Charlie refused to be drawn, and settled himself comfortably in front of his computer monitor after eating to start scanning the Internet for interesting investment opportunities. He had tucked some of his redundancy away after leaving the City, and managed a little portfolio that he sometimes thought of as a running away fund, though ten thousand odd would scarcely last him six months out on his own. He had let it lie of late, because he had a couple of bad runs in hi-tech stocks. But now hewas tempted to start playing with it again. Bella would need a man with up-to-the-minute stockmarket skills.
Jennifer returned to her chandelier in a black mood. She decided first to talk to Veronica, and gather some sympathy, and then consult Freddie. Daughter and partner might then between them help her map a clearer path forward. She would also watch, and wait, and trap Charlie if he showed signs of running after this woman again.
However Veronica proved wholly unhelpful. Jennifer hid herself away with a cordless phone, well out of Charlie’s earshot, because she rather hoped her daughter would brim over with compassion. But Veronica was blunt, and short, when Jennifer told her she thought Charlie might be straying.
‘Don’t try crying on my shoulder.’ Veronica was busily readying herself for a smart night out with her banker husband, and a moaning mother was the last thing she needed. ‘You should treat Dad better.’
‘But he spent the whole afternoon with this woman.’ Jennifer almost wailed her words. Once she and Veronica had been close, fond of girlie chats and little shopping excursions. But the girl had grown into a near stranger since her marriage: a hard, uncaring woman.
‘She probably worked hard to charm him.’ Veronica had watched her mother push Charlie into a back seat, and did not approve. She would not took sides between her parents, but she knew fate had dealt her father a raw deal.
Jennifer hung up sadly. The world was turning against her, and it was unfair.
Freddie also proved a reluctant comforter on Saturday morning when she drove into the village on the pretext of doing some shopping. He was first busy, and then a little impatient.
‘I think you’re going a bit over the top, m’dear.’ He was making Jennifer a cup of coffee in the storeroom whilst Leticia manned the desk, but it was plain that his attention focussed more on antiques than Charlie’s adventures. ‘I lunch with ladies quite often, and frequently tell some of them to go to Christies. It’s the best advice if they have big ticket stuff – because then they bring us the smalls.’
He patted Jennifer on the shoulder in a brotherly sort of way. She really was an attractive woman, and a little anxiety suited her well, investing her with the nervous grace of a gazelle. He was also mindful of thoughts running through his mother’s mind about fostering closer links. But Saturday mornings were not really the right time either for watching wildlife, nor for soothing hurt pride.
‘But what do I do if he meets her again?’ Jennifer gazed at him piteously. Men really could be such uncaring bastards at times. ‘What do I do if he spends another afternoon with her, and then maybe another? He could be seeing her whilst I’m in the shop.’
Her eyes moistened. She could not bear the thought of Charlie racing off when he ought to be nicely under control: it was all wrong. Palming him off on Leticia might be possible, because it would both keep him nicely suppressed as well as in the family. But Charlie should not be driving: the thought was unbearable. She looked up at Freddie with all the appeal she could muster. She had brought him through a crisis. Now it was his turn.
Freddie gazed deep into Jennifer’s eyes, and suddenly realised the extent of her need. He had never really been drawn to women, though some had occasionally been drawn to him. But Jennifer was his partner, and a special bond bound them; they were complementary halves in a whole. Now she was begging him for help, and he had a feeling he might have happened on a defining moment in his life: one of those occasions when everything can change, and present an opportunity for shaping a new man, and perhaps dispel demons that had been a plague for many years. He bent towards her, and her face was turned up towards his, and he kissed her gently. ‘Encourage him to go to France.’
‘Do you think so?’ Jennifer’s pulse began to race. Freddie had travelled, and Freddie spoke French. She would be able to start a new life, with a new Sunday chauffeur, and all would be marvellous.
‘We make a good team.’
‘Oh, Freddie.’ Jennifer gave way to her emotions, and her tears welled freely. ‘We could be so happy together, just the two of us.’ She touched the side of his face, filled with a surge of joy. But suddenly an unpleasant thought crept into her mind, and her voice fell to little more than a whisper. ‘I wouldn’t have to share you, would I?’
‘Share me?’ Freddie understood her question very well. But he needed commitment.
‘With a man?’
‘I don’t think so.’ He smiled gently. ‘I’ll try to forget that part of me.’
‘I’ll try to made it up to you.’ Jennifer felt her joy grow increasingly physical. She knew very little of how men made love with each other, but she would be to Freddie whatever he sought.
Freddie beamed. ‘You might get some surprises.’
Jennifer folded her arms around his neck and pulled his mouth down to hers. ‘So might you.’
However dark forces began to plot downfall for both Jennifer and Freddie as they sang their duet of burgeoning love. Gay Manion had driven to Slough to do her weekly shopping at the big Tesco next to Slough station, and had also arranged to meet a friend called Carla Marshall in Eton for a spot of lunch. Carla was even larger than Gay, built like a tank with blue-rinsed bouffant hair and a fondness for pullovers and slacks in vivid and frequently conflicting colours. Her character was equally chameleon: she was a woman who could be saccharine itself when she sought some benefit, but unyielding and hard when she believes herself to be winning. She had few friends, but many acquaintances, none of whom know much of her background. It was believed that she originated somewhere in the north of England, possibly on Tyneside, because she sometimes referred to young men or women as ‘hinnies’ or ‘lassies’, and she possessed a good knowledge of the workings of the social services. It was thought she might have spent some time with the National Health Service, possibly in some sort of administrative capacity. She now worked as a social counsellor from a rather grubby flat in Burnham, listening benevolently to the bereaved, and helping the poor and the feckless with problems. She was close to the local chapters of Relate, once known as the Marriage Guidance Council, and the Red Cross, and well regarded by the National Society for the Prevention of Cruelty to Children, and similar bodies that focussed on young people, such as Childcare and Dr. Barnardos. She frequently explored Slough police station, and the nearby Magistrates Court, and possessed a swipe card admitting her freely to Slough Council’s Community Care and Social Services units. She made much of the fact that she was a very busy woman. But some who did not greatly care for her – and she was not universally loved – regarded her as a meddling busybody.
The two women met at a pleasant restaurant with a panoramic view along the Thames. Gay was paying, because she needed help, and was also generous, because help might call for some tricky manoeuvering. Both women ordered pasta, because they know it wouldcome in good portions, and Gay commanded a bottle of house wine.
They began by exchanging pleasantries and talking of recent achievements. Carla had successfully consigned a local man to prison for bedding his eleven year old stepdaughter, and put the girl in care, arguing that the mother had turned a blind eye to these romps. She swelled with satisfaction. ‘The man was evil, really evil, and the mother was weak.’ Her eyes narrowed with disapproval. ‘Mrs. Glendinning, the team leader from social services, suspects that she may well have played an active part.’
Gay assumed the right expression of horror. ‘You don’t mean…?’ She let her voice trail away, because some things were just too wicked to put into words.
‘Yes.’ Carla looked around her to made sure nobody was eavesdropping, and lowered her voice. ‘She thinks the three of them shared a bed.’
‘Oh, no.’ Gay had to pause before she could swallow her next mouthful of pasta. ‘Men like that should be made to have an operation.’
Carla chewed on pasta and nodded at the same time. ‘Yes, it was dreadful. But we’ve put him on the sex offenders register, and he won’t dare molest any more girls for quite a while.’
Gay pondered for a moment. She had a thought forming in her mind, but it must be developed. ‘Would he count as a paedophile?’
‘Undoubtedly.’ Carla spoke with authority. ‘We’re launching a big drive in Thames Valley to round these men up - Slough have asked me to lecture at its schools. We must persuade girls to come forward.’
‘Boys as well, I suppose?’
Carla frowned. She got on well with various gay organisations. But under-age sex was under-age sex. ‘Of course. Corrupting any juvenile is a crime.’
‘Men like Freddie Hoskins?’
Carla’s fork stops half way to her mouth. She knew Freddie by name as a successful antique dealer, and very camp. But he also maintained a low profile on the local gay scene, and none of the whispers and tidbits of gossip that frequently came her way had ever linked him with anything beyond the law. She knew he trailed a young man around local gay parties, but the young man was certainly past eighteen. She had heard other names linked to illicit gay sex, actors and men prominent in public life and fond of pretty boys, but never a murmur of Freddie. She waved her fork dismissively. ‘I don’t think Freddie runs after boys.’
‘They do it in secret.’ Gay’s mind spun into overdrive. She would invent something suitably evil about Freddie, but also suitably vague, and try to talk Carla into pressing for an investigation by social services, or even better, by the local police. Fulmer was only a small village, and word would spread like wildfire, especially if she could have a hand in its dissemination. A police enquiry into Freddie Hoskins would soon put paid to him.
Carla speared a fresh mouthful of pasta and chewed on it thoughtfully. She suspected that Gay might be trying to stir up trouble – she had known it happen before. Allegations are very easy to make, and propagate, but rather more difficult to prove. Freddie Hoskinswas a man of standing in Fulmer and might well have influential – and very possibly legalistically minded - friends. Gay might well be trying to lead her into a minefield. She swallowed her pasta and inspected the stout red-haired woman facing her, staring at her hard. Gay lowered her eyes, and she was convinced.
‘You’re making a serious allegation.’
‘It’s the talk of the village.’ Gay puffed up aggressively. Once she had begun inventing, she might as well invent aggressively.
‘People say a lot of things, dear.’ Carla’s voice took on a patronising tone, and she noted with satisfaction the irritation in Gay’s eyes. She had suffered the sharp edge of Gay’s tongue on a couple of occasions, and also knew that Gay disliked being put down. ‘You must be careful what you pass on.’
‘Even when it’s true?’
‘Do you have any proof?’
Gay looks sulky. ‘What kind of proof do you want?’
‘You’d have to produce one of his victims.’ Carla smiled grimly. Gay had a fertile mind, and was good at making things up. But she would have a job to find a compliant rent boy.
Gay was silent. She knew a couple running a council children’s home not ten minutes from her house, and had heard whispers of sordid practices by the housefather, behaviour with a boy that could be counted on to blow him clear out of the water if they became public knowledge. She had no wish to hurt anyone, but it might prove handy if she went to the home for a little chat. Freddie Hoskins had been seen there from time to time, bidding to buy an old table, and it might well be possible to replace a predatory housefather with a gay antique dealer.
She was sure Geoffrey Derricks, the home’s housefather, would listen carefully to a few well-chosen words. Then a few more words on Carla’s part with social services and the local police might well place her in a position to start cooking Freddie Hoskins’ goose – and of course a nice cosy little chat with another acquaintance in the media might give Fulmer a juicy little Sunday tabloid scandal into the bargain. Exit Freddie, and mud all over all his friends. She returned grim smile for grim smile. ‘I think I know where I can find one.’
Carla wavered. ‘He’d have to be convincing.’
Gay gained in confidence in the measure that she saw her companion weakening. ‘If I find a victim he’ll be very convincing.’
‘He’ll have to convince the police.’
Gay merely beamed. She knew she was on a winning streak.
‘All right.’ Carla gave way. ‘Bring him to me, and I’ll alert the authorities.’
She watched Gay polish up a last mouthful of pasta, and wondered whether she was doing the right thing. She was good friends with the man running the new Thames Valley Police Paedophile Unit, and knew him to be very keen to collect some scalps. But she was entering tricky waters, and must paddle with the utmost care. ‘But make sure he’s convincing.’
Gay signed the bill for their meal with a flourish. She was setting herself a challenge. But it would all be for a worthile cause, and she would rejoice in victory.