We Are All Made Of Glue Part 15

Okay, I know it wasn't a very nice thing to say, but I wasn't feeling very nice.

"Hm. But if not the Peki who can it be?" She gave poor Violetta a petulant little kick and shuffled across to put the kettle on.

"It could be anybody. A burglar or anybody." I saw the look of terror flit across her face, and wished I'd held my tongue. I hadn't told her that Mr Ali had already changed the lock once-I hadn't wanted to alarm her. But now I was alarmed myself.

"But why they want to frighten me? Why they don't come into the house? Why they just tek the key?" She looked as if was working herself up into a state.

"It might be someone who's planning to come back." It was hard to imagine the sheer malevolence of someone who would terrorise a defenceless old lady in her own home. "Listen, you'd better get the gla.s.s mended and the lock changed today. You should call Mr Ali. Unless you know of anybody better."

She started poking around in her disgusting cupboards looking for the pond-water tea. Her back was turned towards me.

"He is a clever-knodel, this Peki," she muttered.

Irritation and concern vied for dominance in my mind, and irritation was getting the upper hand. She poured the hot water into a jug and dangled a limp greyish tea bag in it by its string. After a moment, she looked up at me and said, "But I think I will ask Mr Wolfe. My Nicky."

Then she gave me a sly little grin as if to say, I may be eighty-one but I can still wind you up. And she succeeded.

"That's fine. Just the job. You and your Mr Wolfe can sort it out. I don't know why you bothered to call me at all."

All of a sudden, my annoyance overwhelmed me. I stood up abruptly and made for the door. I'd had enough of her constant demands and her petty prejudices and her silly mysteries. I couldn't stand the stink in her house a moment longer, and I certainly didn't want to sit there in the cold, drinking her weak pondy tea when I'd left my own cup of tea to go cold in the kitchen. Let her sort herself out, I thought. I wanted to get back to my bed.

Once home, I heated the tea up in the microwave and climbed into my bed fully clothed. Outside the window, a feeble dawn was just breaking through a bruised purple sky, with long red streaks like bleeding cuts smearing the surface of the clouds. I pulled down the black knickers over my eyes to keep the light out, and tried to will myself back to sleep, but I was too wound up to drift off, and too tired to get up. That dream or nightmare that had woken me was still pushing at the edges of my consciousness-the malevolent figure with a blank eyeless face. I shuddered. For some reason I remembered the website Ben had been looking at-Antichrist, the deceiver, stalking the earth unrecognised, spreading evil and fear. It didn't seem quite so funny now.

Then the phone rang.

"Don't be engry mit me, Georgine. I am only jokking. I am an old woman. Please, telephone to Mr Ali. I heff lost the number."

"Okay, okay."

She phoned me back a few hours later to tell me that Mr Ali had been and boarded up the back door and changed the lock. He had put a new mortise lock on the front, in addition to the Yale, and had fitted bolts to both doors.

"You will be as safe as prison," he'd said.

"How much did he charge you?" I asked.

"I give him ten pound. Plus he mek me pay full price for locks and bolts."

She said it with a grumble in her voice, as though she felt she'd been overcharged.

"You should be grateful," I said, though she clearly wasn't.

"You are still engry mit me, Georgine, isn't it? Don't be engry. You are the only friend I heff."

"No. I'm not angry, Mrs Shapiro."

And it's true, I wasn't angry with her any more. But I had other things on my mind.

Rip had returned from a business trip and had phoned around lunchtime to say he was coming to pick Ben up after work tomorrow. Even after all this time, his phone calls still agitated me. I needed time to get myself into the right frame of mind to face him on the doorstep. Upstairs I could hear the thud-thud of footsteps followed by the thud-thud of music-Ben's morning getting-up rituals, though it was well past midday. That boy could sleep for England. Something else-I still hadn't found out what had happened at Holtham at Christmas.

The doorbell rang a bit earlier than I'd expected on Monday afternoon. I went to answer it with my ready-for-anything smile fixed on my face. But it wasn't Rip on the doorstep, it was Mark Diabello. His black Jaguar was parked by the gate, and he was smiling a ready-for-anything smile, too.

"h.e.l.lo, Mrs Sinclair. Georgina." The deep creases in his rugged cheeks crinkled craggily. "I hope you don't mind my dropping round like this. I've been following up on some of the concerns you raised in our last chat, and I wanted to bring you up to date."

Maybe if I hadn't been expecting Rip to appear at any moment I wouldn't have asked him to come in. But it seemed too good an opportunity to miss.

"That's kind of you, Mr Diabello. Can I offer you a coffee?"

"Call me Mark, please."

He followed me inside, looking around him as I led him through to the sitting room.

"I showed a client round this place when it was first on the market. You've done wonders to it, if I may say so. Added all your little feminine touches."

"Thank you."

As far as I was aware, I'd added no touches to it whatsoever, apart from unloading my furniture and hanging some curtains up.

I positioned him on the sofa by the bay window, where he could be seen from the road. Then I put the kettle on and spooned some coffee into the cafetiere.

"Milk? Sugar?"

"Black with four sugars."

I laughed. "It'll taste like black treacle."

"Mm. That's how I like it."

He must have noticed that I kept glancing towards the window because he said, "I hope I'm not making you nervous, Georgina." Black treacle with a hard mineral edge.

"No, not at all," I bl.u.s.tered, feeling intensely nervous.

Then a car horn beeped outside-I recognised the distinctive note of Rip's Saab.

"Please excuse me." I went to the bottom of the stairs and shouted, "Ben! Rip's here!"

"Coming!"

A moment later Ben appeared, with his shoelaces still undone, his shirt hanging out, and his big backpack over his shoulder. G.o.d knows what he carted around in it because he always seemed to wear the same clothes. I went out to the car with him, my ready-for-anything smile fixed in position. But Rip just pulled the inside lever to open the boot and sat in his Saab, waiting for Ben to put his backpack in. He didn't even wind the window down. I couldn't even tell whether he'd noticed the black Jag or the man sitting in the window. I wanted to hammer on the window with my fists, I wanted to kick in the glossy, dark green door panels. But Ben was waving goodbye, so I blew him a kiss and went back inside, slamming the door.

My face must have been livid when I returned to the sitting room, for Mr Diabello gave me a sharp look and said, "All going to plan?"

"Not exactly."

His left eyebrow lifted a fraction, and his cheeks tightened, and I realised from that look that he had understood everything about my situation. I blushed as if he'd walked in on me naked in my bedroom. He was a man, I remembered with a shiver, who could read people's dreams.

"Want to talk about it?" His voice oozed sympathy. "I can recommend a good solicitor."

"No. No, it's not at that stage yet." As I said the words I realised that probably it was at that stage, and probably I did need legal advice. But the thought of a friend of Mark Diabello's crawling all over the intimacies of my life made me cringe. "Just tell me what you came to tell me."

"Yes-you were concerned that my partner, Nick Wolfe, might be behaving...how can I put it?...improperly."

"Hara.s.sing an old lady in order to force her out and get possession of her house."

My coffee had gone cold, but I sipped it anyway, to avoid looking at him. His gaze was making me feel uncomfortable and sweaty, like sitting under a spotlight. I could feel my cheeks going pink.

"I've had words with Nick. He admits he's fallen for the house, and has maybe been a bit too...er...enthusiastic in approaching Mrs Shapiro. But he denies absolutely having done anything improper."

"But he admits to plying her with sherry. Hoping she'd sign a bit of paper that he just happened to have in his briefcase?"

However annoyed I got with Mrs Shapiro, I wasn't going to stand by and let these two shysters take her to the cleaners.

"I think the sherry was meant as a goodwill gesture. A gift. He didn't mean her to open it up and start drinking it straightaway. That was her idea. By all accounts, she was giving him the eye."

"Oh, come off it! She's eighty-one. Anyway, why would he bring her a gift?"

"A token of appreciation for a valued client."

"But she's not a client. He just turned up at her hospital bedside."

"From what Nick says, she was a willing party. More than willing. Positively eager. He also told me, by the way, that she's not in fact your aunt."

He looked up at me from lowered eyes, a small smile playing around his...how would you describe his lips? Not full and sensuous. No. But definitely...kissable.

"Okay, so I made that up. But it doesn't change anything."

"It does raise the issue of what your your interest is in the property." interest is in the property."

"I haven't any interest. I just don't want to see an old lady be ripped off. Someone must have told him about the house." Then I realised. "You must have told him." must have told him."

Our eyes met. I noticed for the first time that his were not brown, as I'd previously thought, but dark sea-green, with sparks of gold and obsidian in their depths.

"I did mention our conversation to him. I didn't expect him to get quite so excited about it. He's a very pa.s.sionate man, you know. It's our motto at Wolfe & Diabello. Pa.s.sionate about property."

"Pa.s.sionate"-there was something about the way he lingered over the word.

"He thought Mrs Shapiro deserved a more focused view of his services?"

"Exactly so."

"Like me?"

"That's up to you, Georgina."

"Thank you. It's been nice talking to you." I stood up abruptly, knocking my empty coffee cup over. He stood up, too, brushing past me as he made his way towards the door. I felt a shiver-or was it a shudder?

"The pleasure's all mine," he said.

When I looked out of the window, I saw it was snowing again outside.

After he'd gone, I sat down on the sofa and breathed deeply. In-two-three-four. Out-two-three-four In-two-three-four. Out-two-three-four. For some reason, my heart started to thump. Yes, I knew, in my sensible core, that the last thing I needed was a man like Mark Diabello in my life-a treacle-voiced estate agent with black and gold in his eyes. But I was unhappy and furious and needy. And it was so long since someone had looked at me with desire. And a little voice in the back of my head was whispering-why not?

23.

Stress fractures It was still snowing that same powdery snow next day when I walked past the Islington window of Wolfe & Diabello on my way to the bus stop. I'd I'd been down to pick up a new laser cartridge, some more exercise books and a box of Choco-Puffs (I think they're disgusting, but Ben likes them, and I'm in compet.i.tion with whatever he gets in Islington.) I glanced in through the window and saw Nick Wolfe, bending over the desk of a young blonde woman who could have been a clone of Suzi Brentwood. On impulse, I pushed the door and went in. They both looked up as the door pinged. been down to pick up a new laser cartridge, some more exercise books and a box of Choco-Puffs (I think they're disgusting, but Ben likes them, and I'm in compet.i.tion with whatever he gets in Islington.) I glanced in through the window and saw Nick Wolfe, bending over the desk of a young blonde woman who could have been a clone of Suzi Brentwood. On impulse, I pushed the door and went in. They both looked up as the door pinged.

"Mr Wolfe. I'm glad you're in. Have you a minute?"

The blonde stubble on his scalp gleamed as he straightened up.

He led me into an office at the back and pulled out two chairs.

"What can I do you for, Georgette?" He smiled wolfily.

I explained my concern about the mains water tap and the back-door keys, keeping my voice carefully neutral and avoiding any hint of accusation.

"You spoke to my colleague Mark Diabello about this, didn't you?"

His voice was slightly plummier than Mark's. I guessed he'd been to public school, whereas Mark had pulled himself up the hard way. Like me. He glanced pointedly at his watch. I ignored the hint.

"What I can't understand is what you and Mr Diabello are up to." I was smiling sweetly, looking him straight in the eye. "He wants to sell it for half a million. Then he puts it up to a million. Then you go barging into the hospital with an offer of two million." I spoke fast, conscious that his eyes were fixed on me in a not-very-friendly way. "You must admit, it's a bit...worrying."

"Look, Mrs...Georgette. To be frank, I don't really know what it's got to do with you. It's up to Mrs Shapiro what she does with her house, isn't it? I understand she's not even related to you." He glanced at his watch again. "I made Mrs Shapiro what I consider to be a very fair offer. More than fair. Generous. I don't know what Mark told you, but let's get one thing straight." There was a bullying note in his voice that made me flinch. "Just because it's floated on the market doesn't mean it reaches its market price. Nor that the person who makes the initial purchase is the ultimate buyer, if you see what I mean."

What did did he mean? In the close s.p.a.ce of the office, I could smell his musky aftershave, and beneath it, a strong almost feral odour that reminded me of Wonder Boy. he mean? In the close s.p.a.ce of the office, I could smell his musky aftershave, and beneath it, a strong almost feral odour that reminded me of Wonder Boy.

"You mean Mark Diabello buys it for a quarter of a million, and sells it on to somebody else for two million, trousering the difference?"

"I did not say that, Georgette." He emphasised every syllable forcefully. "That is not what I said." He looked at his watch again, and then stood up. "If you'll excuse me, I have business to attend to."

I stood on the pavement reeling. It had turned dark in the last half-hour, and a few stray snowflakes were spinning like scattered thoughts in the orange-tinged light. One or two of the shops had already closed up, but I noticed that Hendricks & Wilson was still open. Well, what did I have to lose?

Although the two shopfronts looked similar from the outside, the interiors were startlingly different. Whereas Wolfe & Diabello had been all gla.s.s and chrome with laminate flooring and halogen lights, in the style of a city bistro, Hendricks & Wilson had red carpet and leather armchairs and bra.s.s wall-lights in the style of a gentlemen's club. I suppose it was meant to feel traditional and rea.s.suring, but it just seemed ridiculously pompous in such a small s.p.a.ce. A thin youth with spiky gelled hair was sitting at a computer, staring intently at the monitor. He looked up and smiled as I came in.

"I'm looking for Damian," I said.

"That's me," he beamed. His teeth were slightly crooked, and he looked rea.s.suringly gormless. "How can I help?"

I hadn't really prepared what I was going to say, so I tried the familiar line about my aunty selling a house in Totley Place. I watched his face carefully, but there was no sign of recognition. It seemed that whatever Mrs Goodney had been planning, she hadn't put it into action. Maybe I'd frightened her off.

"I think you need to speak to one of the partners about something like that. Would you like me to make an appointment?" He reached for a large red-bound desk diary.