The Cinderella Moment. Gemma Fox
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and books arranged alphabetically; labelled boxes, jars of brushes, bottles of linseed oil and turps. There was a set of Perspex drawers filled with tubes of paint; neatly stacked tins of charcoal and pastels; a jam jar full of pencils which sat alongside another full of feathers and a third and fourth with brushes and palette knives. One shelf held a row of pebbles that ran unbroken from one end to the other. Against the wall adjoining the shelves, boards stacked in a metal frame, canvas stretched and ready in another. But all these things were so tidily and methodically arranged that the studio felt uncluttered. An easel dominated the centre of the room, the bare floorboards below it covered with a delicate filigree of spilt gold, blue and red paint.
‘Those bloody stairs play havoc with my back,’ grumbled Barney. ‘I keep thinking it would make a decent storeroom, but I’d only fill it up with crap. If you like it, you could use it – if you want to, that is,’ he added grudgingly. ‘There’s a kitchenette thing through there and a toilet.’ He waved towards another door in the far wall and then pulled a cloth off something fixed on a cantilevered arm to the wall opposite the easel. Underneath was a small television monitor, currently switched off.
‘It’s the shop,’ said Barney in answer to Cass’s unspoken question. ‘In theory, you could work up here and mind the fort, although in practice it is a perfect fucking nuisance. You just get into something and you’re interrupted by some bloody moron wanting to know if you sell T-shirts. And if you don’t go down, they get annoyed. Assuming you’re that quick. People are in and out before you can get down the stairs – nicking the stock, stealing money out of the till…Although I suppose the bonus is that at least you’ve got their faces on video for when you take the thieving bastards to court.’ He looked up at her. ‘So, when can you start? You are going to take the job?’
Cass shrugged. ‘Maybe,’ she said, trying hard to sound noncommittal, while knowing that she planned to say yes.
Once they had closed the shop, Barney, Daisy and Cass walked down to the restaurant, Barney and Daisy bickering all the way. Cass smiled to herself. Jake was right: a summer in Brighton was exactly what she needed.
Margaret Devlin looked at the man on the doorstep and said with genuine surprise, ‘Gordie, how are you?’ He was the last person she had expected to see.
He smiled. ‘More to the point, how are you, Margaret?’
Gordie Mann had a bluff rugby player’s face, broad cheekbones, the skin around his eyes cut and shaped by great swathes of scar tissue, and a nose broken and badly set more than once.
‘Bloody awful,’ she said grimly. He towered above her like a badly constructed crane.
‘I would have been round sooner, but I thought what with the law here and everything, you wouldn’t want any more visitors. I’m so very sorry to hear about James.’ He handed her a bunch of flowers.
Margaret Devlin looked coyly up at him. ‘You know that I’m always pleased to see you, Gordie. Why don’t you come in and have a drink.’
He nodded. ‘Don’t mind if I do, Margaret – only I’ve got someone with me.’ Gordie stepped aside to reveal a small, weaselly-looking man with thinning reddish-grey hair, wearing a mack and dark horn-rimmed glasses. ‘This is Mr Marshall,’ he said.
Margaret Devlin peered at him. ‘Mr Marshall?’ she said, both as a muted welcome and a question. She would have much preferred it if Gordie had been on his own. It wouldn’t be the first time that she had cried on his big broad shoulders.
Gordie nodded. ‘He’s working for me. He’s a private detective. We’re looking for James.’
Margaret Devlin stared at him. ‘But why? I’m not with you.’
Gordie smiled and, sliding a bottle of Gordon’s gin out of the pocket of his Crombie, said in an undertone: ‘How about I come inside and explain it to you?’
Margaret blushed and then stood aside to let him pass. Gordie Mann and Margaret Devlin went back a long way.
‘So, Ms…’
‘Mrs.’
The policewoman nodded. ‘Mrs Hammond, you said that you’d never met Mr Devlin before.’
‘No. What I said was that we’d met on the train before.’
‘Several times?’
Cass glanced at the WPC, wondering why the hell she should be feeling guilty, and at the same time annoyed that the policewoman was asking her the same questions over and over again in different ways, quite obviously and very heavyhandedly trying to catch Cass out.
‘Once. I met him once before. He gave me fruit.’
The woman nodded and looked down at her notes. ‘Peaches?’
‘Yes.’
‘Right. And are you normally in the habit of taking fruit from strangers, Ms Hammond?’
This was ridiculous. Cass stared at the small, dour policewoman trying very hard not to lose her patience, laugh or swear. ‘Well, it’s not something I do every day, no – but then again, on the whole most strangers don’t offer me fruit.’
The policewoman’s expression tightened. ‘Please, Ms Hammond,’ she said between gritted teeth, ‘this is a very serious matter.’
Cass nodded. ‘I don’t doubt it, but I’ve already told you everything I know. I had met this man once before. The second time we met he told me he was going on an adventure to Rome. He got off at Cambridge, told me he was going to catch the Stansted train, and that was the last I saw of him.’
The woman nodded and then said softly, ‘And the phone?’
Cass sighed. ‘What about the phone?’
‘You were handed it by a woman who –’
‘Who found it under the man’s seat, or on it – I’m not sure now. So, I rang his home number and left him a message to let him know he’d lost it, but that it was safe.’
‘And to arrange to meet him and give it back?’
‘Yes, that’s right.’
‘And other than calling his home number, you haven’t done anything else to the phone, subsequently? Edited the phone book or deleted any information regarding incoming or outgoing calls, texts or anything?’
A small sleek silver mobile phone lay on the coffee table between them, all neatly sealed up in an evidence bag. As Cass’s eye moved over it, the policewoman smiled without warmth.
‘No,’ said Cass, wishing the bloody woman would just leave.
‘Mrs Devlin said that your manner on the phone was –’ the WPC read from her notebook – ‘“flirtatious and over familiar”.’
Cass reddened furiously. ‘I’m not sure that’s exactly how I’d put it. OK, he had been very friendly, chatty – very chatty. I didn’t know he was married. I certainly didn’t think I was leaving a message that would be picked up by his wife.’
The policewoman’s expression didn’t change. ‘So, you were attracted to Mr Devlin?’ She didn’t wait for Cass to answer. Instead she added, ‘You know, it wouldn’t be the first time that a woman was taken in by an attractive and plausible man, Ms Hammond.’
Cass stared at her, wondering if the WPC had met David.
The policewoman leaned forward, as if to imply that this was really just a cosy girl-to-girl-chat, and continued in a low conspiratorial voice. ‘And James Devlin is quite a charmer, apparently.’
Cass felt a growing sense of indignation; the insinuation made her skin prickle. ‘Meaning what, exactly?’ she growled.
The woman aped empathy. ‘Oh, come on, Ms Hammond. Meaning that James Devlin has a knack of getting women to do what he wants. He’s got quite a reputation, you know – bit of a ladies’ man, bit