The Cinderella Moment

Cass peered at it. Jake was right about the photograph. It looked like it had been blown up from some kind of eighties team photo and, other than the mop of blond hair, it looked nothing like the man she had met on the train.

‘Well, like I said, I’m not interested. When I saw him he was very chirpy, no hint of…you know.’ She expertly mimicked Jake’s tone and gesture as she returned the paper to him.

‘Have you talked to anyone about seeing him, besides the police?’ asked Jake. ‘The press or anything?’

‘No. Why on earth should I?’

‘I just wondered. Only there’s a car been sitting at the end of the lane for most of the day. I noticed it parking up when you came home. I wouldn’t swear to it, but I think the guy inside has got some sort of camera or maybe binoculars. I wondered if it was a reporter, the paparazzi.’

Cass laughed. ‘Oh, stop it. You’re being paranoid.’

Jake shrugged. ‘Maybe, but I was just thinking, what would happen if the national press got hold of your connection with the case?’

‘Got hold of what connection? I haven’t got a connection. I saw him on the train – it’s hardly headline news, is it? “Woman sees man on train.”’

‘Maybe you’re right. But you don’t know what his wife might have said about you.’

Cass groaned. ‘Please, Jake, stop, will you,’ and then added casually, ‘Is there any chance you could get that case down for me?’

Jake looked heavenwards. ‘Work, work, work, what on earth are you going to do without me?’

At which point Danny, still sitting on the end of the bed, sniffed miserably.

At the end of the lane where Cass and Jake lived, Mr Marshall had logged Jake’s arrival and taken a couple of photos with the long lens on his new digital camera.

A few miles away in Little Lamport a stream of police officers, as industrious and diligent as worker ants, were busy carrying box after box of James Devlin’s papers and personal effects out from the office he had had built above the double garage and stacking them neatly under the carport. Alongside the papers and folders were computers, screens, boxes of CDS, DVDs, files, folders, and God knows what else, all neatly sealed in evidence bags which were being carefully logged and doublechecked before being packed into an unmarked navy blue Transit van.

Margaret Devlin watched their progress from the sitting-room window and bit her lip, holding back a great torrent of fury.

Detective Inspector Turner, the officer in charge of the investigation, who was sitting opposite her drinking tea and eating his way through a packet of Garibaldis, took it for grief, which was most probably a good thing. Margaret glanced at him. He was a large affable man with wavy grey hair and a rather natty moustache that made him look distinguished and added a slightly military air.

‘We really appreciate your co-operation, Mrs Devlin. My men and I will try and ensure there is as little disruption to your day-to-day routine as possible. I realise that life can’t be very easy for you at the moment.’

He could say that again; her solicitor had just rung to tell Margaret that an application had been made by the shareholders to freeze all James’s assets. Why couldn’t the bastard have had the decency to die quietly in his bed and leave her in peace? She really hoped Gordie Mann’s weaselly friend tracked James down. Life would be so much simpler if James was dead – a heart attack or something quick and terminal – but obviously only if he hadn’t been using the company funds as his own personal current account. Bastard. Outside in the run, Snoops, pressed tight up against the wire, threw back his head and howled miserably.

‘I’m afraid I need to ask you a few more questions.’ DI Turner’s voice focused her attention.

‘I’m so sorry,’ she said. ‘I was miles away.’ If only.

He waved her apology away. ‘It’s perfectly understandable. Would you prefer to wait until your solicitor is present?’

Margaret shook her head. ‘No, of course not, Inspector. I’ve got nothing to hide. Ask away.’ She smiled at the WPC who was perched on the edge of the sofa, taking notes. The girl really didn’t make the best of herself, a bit of eye makeup and a decent bra really wouldn’t go amiss; what did they teach them at police training college?

The Detective Inspector took a deep breath as if he was about to launch into a big speech, but at that moment the au pair appeared at the sitting-room door, anxiously wringing her paws as she looked from one face to the other, finally settling on Margaret with those big brown watery eyes of hers.

‘Missis Devlin?’ The au pair smiled wanly at her. Margaret glared right back. This, after being told on numerous occasions that she wasn’t to interrupt when Margaret had guests, even if the guests were in this case the police.

‘Yes?’ said Margaret, feigning interest; she still wasn’t altogether sure what the girl’s name was, despite her having been with them six months. It was something Eastern European, maybe Romania, which sounded like a cross between a sneeze and a hacking cough, and refused point-blank to stay in her head, even after she had written it down phonetically on a whole pile of post-it notes and stuck them at various key points around the house.

‘What is it, dear?’ she added, mostly for DI Turner’s benefit. ‘Only, as I’m sure you can see, I am a little busy at the moment.’

The girl smiled nervously. ‘Sorry to disturb you, but this eeeez important.’

Margaret sniffed; that remained to be seen. Probably another defrosting, how-many-minutes-to-let-it-stand-between-microwaving emergency. She was tempted to suggest whatever-her-name-was went back into the kitchen and read the bloody packet, but held fire. The girl took this to be a green light.

‘This won’t take long, I just want to tell you that I have to leave now.’ Margaret had to pick her way through the words, the girl’s accent was as thick as a hand-knitted vest.

Margaret smiled indulgently at DI Turner and then back at what’s-her-name. ‘No, dear, not yet. It’s barely three o’clock,’ she began, her eyes narrowing. ‘It’s not time for you to finish work yet. You finish later.’ She tapped her watch for added emphasis. ‘Later. Six o’clock.’

But the girl was insistent. ‘No,’ she said emphatically, shaking her head. ‘No, I hef to go now.’

‘No, you don’t. You leave off at six, after you’ve cooked the children’s supper. Then it will be time for you to go to your language class.’ Margaret talked slowly, her smile stretched as tight as a drumskin as she enunciated every last word. God, the girl was such a bloody moron. ‘I’ll tell you what, why don’t we talk about this later. I’m rather busy at the –’

But the girl would not be stopped. ‘No, no, no, you not make of me any understanding. I have to go. Really. I do.’ She mimed walking away, using two pale, podgy fingers to represent those dumpylard white legs of hers. ‘Now.’

‘Oh, I understand perfectly, dear,’ said Margaret, keeping her tone as even as she could manage, while pulling a jolly ‘sorry, what-can-you-do-face’ for DI Turner. ‘But you don’t leave off until six. Six.’ She held up six fingers. ‘Six o’clock.’

The girl frowned. ‘No, not six, I know six. I have to go to my mother’s.’

‘Your mother’s?’ snapped Margaret incredulously. ‘What on earth do you mean, your mother’s? Your mother lives in, in…’ Margaret fished around for the exact location and, coming up empty, settled for, ‘abroad.’

The girl’s eyes lit up. ‘Yes,’ she said. ‘Yes, that is it. Abroad, yes.’

‘Yes?’ said Margaret grimly, her awareness of DI Turner slipping away as her patience finally began to fail her. ‘What the hell do you mean, yes? Yes what?’

‘Yes, please, I am having to going to my mother’s abroad.’

Margaret’s eyes narrowed. ‘When?’

The girl smiled beatifically ‘Soon. But I have to leave here tonight. Now.’

‘Excuse me for one moment,’ said Margaret brightly to DI Turner as she got to her feet. ‘I’m not sure precisely what is going on here.’ And then to the girl, in a cooler tone: ‘Perhaps we should discuss this later, my dear, or at least go into the kitchen to finish our conversation. The Detective Inspector really doesn’t want to hear all our domestic –’

But the girl shook her head. ‘No, no. I have not got to talk. I have no time. I have to go now. I have to pack.’ It sounded like i-heftogonow-I heftopec.’

‘No, you don’t,’ Margaret growled. ‘We need to talk about this.’

The girl pulled herself upright, mouth narrowing down to an angry little slit. ‘It is in my contract.’

Margaret stiffened. ‘I’m sorry? What did you say?’

The girl pulled a great, dog-eared many-folded wedge of paper out from her overall pocket. ‘Page four, it is in my contract, it says my mother’s health it is not good. She is a sick woman.’

She waved the paper under Margaret’s nose and then, for good measure, under DI Turner’s. ‘It says here that I am able go to assist her any time if she ring me.’

‘And she rang you?’ asked Margaret icily.

The girl nodded. ‘Oh, yes. She ring me.’