The Cinderella Moment. Gemma Fox
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was obviously not the answer the WPC was expecting. ‘What I’m trying to say,’ she snapped, ‘is that you wouldn’t be the first woman to be taken in by him.’
Cass was fed up of feeling put on, patronised and annoyed. ‘Look, let’s get one thing straight, shall we? I wasn’t taken in by him. He gave me fruit and a mint humbug.’
The policewoman glanced down at her notes. ‘A mint humbug? You didn’t mention –’ she began, the implication being presumably that if Cass had overlooked a boiled sweet, it was quite reasonable to assume that she might have overlooked a secret assignation, an extra-marital affair, or a plan to run away to Rome together.
‘Officer,’ said Cass, as politely as she could manage, which wasn’t very, ‘I think this has gone on quite long enough. I’ve got things to do, I’ve got to collect my son from school. I’ve answered your questions and told you everything I can remember. And I don’t think going over and over and over is going to help.’
The woman nodded and she and the young policeman she had brought with her got to their feet.
‘One more thing,’ the WPC said, while still almost bent double. ‘Your neighbour mentioned the fact that you are thinking about moving to Brighton.’
Trust Jake.
‘Yes, that’s right,’ said Cass, well aware of how defensive she sounded. ‘Just for the summer.’
The policewoman’s eyes narrowed thoughtfully. ‘Right. Any particular reason? I mean, why you’re thinking about moving there now?’
‘Why not now?’ said Cass.
‘You said that your husband is no longer living here with you and your son?’
‘No, what I said was that he had left me for the girl who did our cleaning. And no, I haven’t got any plans to set up a secret seaside love nest, if that’s what you are implying. I just wanted to take a break, think things through – the last few months have been tough.’
The policewoman stared blankly at her. Cass wondered if she was protesting too much, an emotion only equalled by her growing sense of frustration and fury. She made an effort to smile. ‘I don’t really see how this is relevant, but, OK, yes, I am moving to Bright –’
‘To meet Mr Devlin?’ the WPC asked quickly, as if Cass might not notice that she had slipped the question in.
‘No, not to meet Mr Bloody Devlin. I’ve been offered a summer job there,’ snapped Cass.
The policewoman nodded and scribbled something in her notebook. For all Cass knew, it might have been a note to pick up a frozen pizza on the way home. Whatever it was, she had had enough.
‘What sort of job?’ the WPC pressed.
Cass was already halfway across the sitting room, guiding the two of them towards the door. ‘In a gallery,’ she said briskly as she opened the front door.
The policewoman’s eyes lit up. ‘Oh yes,’ she said gleefully. ‘You’re an artist, aren’t you?’ She managed to make it sound like it was a career choice that was up there somewhere between mass murder and self-employed puppy-strangling.
‘Yes, I am,’ said Cass grimly.
‘Um, well, we’ll be in touch,’ said the policewoman. ‘And if you remember anything else in the meantime, or Mr Devlin makes contact, please don’t hesitate to ring.’ She handed Cass a card. Cass slipped it into her pocket; there was really no point in protesting.
Margaret Devlin had the most terrible hangover when she got up, although it could easily have been down to mixing gin with the sleeping pills that the doctor had given her. She hadn’t had that much. Gordie had had quite a lot, although the private detective, Mr Marshall, had had only one – a very small one at that, which probably said it all – explaining that he was driving and wanted to take notes during their little chat. Margaret narrowed her eyes, trying to reconstruct their conversation from the fragments she could remember.
It appeared that James had been involved with Gordie in some sort of business investments and Gordie wasn’t convinced that the police were working as diligently as they might to track James down. And over another G & T, Gordie explained that he had other ways and means at his disposal – things and methods not always available to the law, more direct methods. And then Mr Marshall explained that he was working for Gordie – but Margaret couldn’t remember the exact details now.
She had told them everything she thought might help. Mr Marshall had written down the phone numbers and name of the woman who had rung and left a message for James.
‘And you think that your husband and this Mrs Hammond were having an affair?’
‘Well, she said she had picked up the phone on the train. I mean, what sort of story is that?’
Mr Marshall didn’t say a word. Margaret sniffed; she could tell he didn’t believe her. And then they had all traipsed up to James’s office. At the door, Gordie and Mr Marshall pulled on surgical gloves, then searched the place from floor to ceiling and photocopied James’s diary and address books.
‘You can take them if it will help,’ she had suggested.
Gordie smiled and patted her hand. ‘Thank you, Margaret.’ And then he looked at his companion. Mr Marshall tapped the side of his nose and very carefully slid the books into a plastic carrier.
Now, stone-cold sober, sitting in her bedroom, Margaret cursed her naivety. She ought to have gone through the diaries and the address books and seen for herself if Cass Hammond’s name was in there. Men weren’t any good at that kind of thing. Margaret had a nose for codes and little hints and subtle marks in the margin. She had always caught James out before; she knew the signs. Bastard.
She dropped two soluble aspirin into a glass. The plink, plink fizz made her wince, and she wished for the hundredth time that she’d saved the woman’s answer machine message – all that bloody giggling and flirting. If they’d heard that, the police and Mr Marshall would have understood why she was so sure and so bloody angry.
Cass closed the front door behind the policewoman, laid her forehead against the wood, and closed her eyes. So far it wasn’t proving the easiest of weeks.
The only good thing was that the madwoman hadn’t rung her again, although Cass wasn’t convinced she’d heard the last from the hysterical, dog-loving, Mrs James Devlin.
By contrast, David had been bleakly sane when he showed up, a couple of hours or so after she arrived home from meeting Barney, which was quite a feat for someone red-faced, sweaty, with wet hair slicked slyly over his bald patch, wearing a bright turquoise tracksuit and carrying a squash racquet in a fluorescent green-and-yellow case. Seeing him made her heart lurch miserably.
‘The thing is, Cass, I need a little time and space to think about the future – our future,’ David said, sitting on the sofa, wringing his hands. ‘Well, all right, my future.’
‘Really,’ Cass said flatly. When they had been together she had never realised just how self-centred and conniving he sounded. Pain and the sense of loss made her see him so differently. Was it clearer and truer, or was it that betrayal coloured her vision?
‘There’s no need to be so negative, Cass. You see,’ he said, seizing on the word like a terrier grabbing a trouser leg, ‘to be perfectly honest with you, I think that’s the problem really, isn’t it?’
‘Sorry? I’m not with you,’ said Cass in surprise.
‘Well, you’re always so negative about everything, and so petty. For example, I’ve been here, what? Nearly ten minutes?’ He pulled back the sleeve of his tracksuit and peered at his watch to emphasise the point. ‘And you know that I’ve just walked up here from the sports centre, but you didn’t ask me to sit down and you haven’t offered me so much as a glass of water, let alone a cup of tea. It’s all a bit petty and vindictive, isn’t it?’
Cass