The Cinderella Moment

2

A few days later, a Thameslink train slowed to a crawl and pulled into Brighton Station. Cass collected her things together and peered out of the grimy carriage window; she wasn’t sure what she’d been expecting, but this wasn’t it. Brighton didn’t look at all like a seaside town, more like King’s Cross on a bad day, maybe even grimier. There were the sounds of seagulls, but Cass wouldn’t have been surprised if they were a recording being played over the tannoy.

Pulling up the handle on her suitcase, Cass made her way along the platform towards the exit, looking at the sea of faces as she did. Barney, Barney – what the hell did a bad-tempered artist called Barney look like?

Oh, there, that just had to be him: leaning against a pillar was a small plump man with grey skin, bloodshot eyes, a beard like a bird’s nest, and a lot of hair growing out of his ears. He was smoking a roll-up and wearing a nasty oversized well-stained sweater that would have passed muster on any self-respecting artist from eighteen to eighty.

She was about to walk over to him when a cultured voice said, ‘Cassandra?’ She swung round to be greeted by an elderly man who was leaning heavily on a walking stick. His thick silver-grey hair was slicked back and tucked behind his ears, and he was wearing an expensive, beautifully tailored grey suit and a paisley waistcoat. He looked like a well-heeled country squire.

‘Barney?’

The man extended a hand and smiled. ‘Absolutely. Delighted to meet you, my dear. Bartholomew Anthony Hesquith-Morgan-Roberts. Jake sent me a photo of you; it does you no justice at all.’

His deep, dark brown voice came straight out of one of the better public schools, pure top-drawer, clipped and nipped and terribly posh, and Cass – although she smiled and shook his hand – could feel the chip on her shoulder weighing heavy. David was an ex-public schoolboy too and the most terrible snob, and thought some of what he referred to as ‘her funny little habits’ anything but funny.

‘But do feel free to call me Barney,’ the man was saying. ‘Everyone else does, despite my best efforts to stop them. Still, it’s rather nice to give the whole moniker an airing once in a while. So, what did Jake tell you about me?’

Cass looked him up and down. Barney was tall and nicely made with broad shoulders, a generous mouth and a big hawkish nose that dominated his large suntanned face. She had no doubt that, in his day, Barney had been a total rogue – and most probably still was when he got the chance. He had bright blue eyes, and when he smiled his whole face concertinaed into pleats like Roman blinds and promised all manner of things.

‘That you’re a miserable old bastard,’ she suggested.

He nodded thoughtfully. ‘You know, it’s such a cliché, but sadly it’s absolutely true. I used to be a miserable young bastard, but it doesn’t have quite the same ring to it, does it? For years people – mostly women, it has to be said – have been convinced that I’m complex and deep, a wounded soul who needed saving from a cruel and uncomprehending world, but to be perfectly honest I’ve mostly just been in a foul mood for the last sixtyodd years. I was a dour and grumpy child, spent almost all of my twenties being annoyed about something or somebody, my thirties were worse, and I was absolutely unspeakable in my forties. It was such a relief to get into my fifties; people take it for granted that you’re grumpy then. My sixties have been an absolute dream.’ He paused. ‘I think it would be best if we took a cab. Getting a car in and out of here and then finding somewhere to park would very possibly have given me heart failure. Besides, it makes me swear dreadfully at people – who can, it has to be said, be bloody infuriating.’ He tucked the cane under his arm, grabbed hold of the handle of her suitcase and marched off towards the taxi rank at top speed, Cass having to run to keep up.

‘I thought you’d got a bad back?’ she said, scuttling after him.

‘I have,’ he grumbled. ‘I hate the fact it slows me down. Although my mood’s improved tremendously since the pain eased up. I’m bloody awful at being old. Jake told me that you have a son?’

‘Danny.’

Barney nodded gravely. ‘I hate children.’

Cass tried to work out if he was joking.

‘Is he quiet?’

‘Of course he’s not quiet. He’s six.’

Barney looked thoughtful. ‘Right. I see. And you’re expecting me to let you live in my flat with your noisy son, are you?’

Cass ground to a halt and glared at him. ‘Whoa. Hang on a minute there. Is this some kind of trial by ordeal? Because if it is, I’m not interested. Right now my life is about as messy as I ever want it to be. If you expect me to help you out and work in your gallery, that’s fine. But I don’t need to jump through hoops of fire to prove anything – all right? Is that clear? And being rude and then telling me you’ve always been like that doesn’t cut it as an excuse. Capiche?’

Barney stared at her and then nodded appreciatively. ‘I think we’re going to get along just fine,’ he said. ‘You remind me of my mother.’

Cass carried on glaring at him. ‘How do you really feel about children?’

Barney mulled it over for a few moments. ‘I hate them,’ he said cheerfully.

‘I’m sure, given time, Danny will hate you right back.’

Barney nodded. ‘Sounds like a very equitable arrangement. And you’ve got a cat called Bob and a dog –’

‘Called Milo.’

Barney smiled. It lit up his face like a flare. ‘Oh, that’s wonderful. I adore animals. Now, let’s find a cab. I thought we’d go to the flat first, leave your luggage there, and then we’ll come back into town once you’ve got your bearings.’

‘And look at the shop?’

He nodded. ‘Yes. It’s in the Lanes.’

‘Sorry?’ Nothing that Cass had seen of Brighton so far suggested there were anything approaching lanes within miles.

‘Have you never heard of it? It’s a magical little area, very arty – better than the rest of Brighton put together, in my opinion. You’ll love it. It’s between North Street and the seafront. It predates the Regency rush to Brighton; gives you an idea how the whole place must have looked when it was a fishing village.’

‘And your shop is there?’

‘Oh God, yes. It’s wonderful, whole place is like a North European souk – bohemian, busy, bubbling, vibrant. There are designer shops and hippie shops and gem shops and juice bars, all sorts of amazing little treasures nestled together. And, well, you’ll see – my place has an eye on the commercial; beautiful things designed for broader tastes.’ He paused. ‘We’ve got all sorts of wonderful old tut in there.’

Cass looked along the busy concourse. It certainly didn’t seem the kind of place you’d have problems getting staff. ‘And you want me to work there because…?’

Barney considered for a few moments. ‘Because I trust Jake’s judgement, and mine is bloody awful. Good help is still hard to come by, however old the cliché. I need someone who is versatile, enthusiastic and talented, and who won’t keep moaning about what a pain in the arse I am.’

Cass laughed. ‘Is that what Jake said about me?’

Barney nodded as they stepped up to take the next taxi in the rank. ‘That and the fact that you’ve got the most terrible taste in men.’

Barney’s enormous basement flat looked as if it could easily have belonged to the man on the station, the one with the hairy ears and the well-stained sweater. As Barney guided Cass in through the little outer lobby and then the galley kitchen that ran parallel to an enormous sunlit sitting room, he looked decidedly apologetic. ‘I need someone to take care of me,’ he said miserably.

Cass looked round. He was right. It was the most beautiful room – or at least it once had been – with large windows at street level, giving ample light even though they were below ground. By the enormous open fireplace stood a scarlet linen sofa and two huge armchairs draped with ornate embroidered throws. There was a gilt mirror on the wall opposite the windows, another above the fire catching every last glimmer of sunlight, and waist-height bookcases running all the way round the room, full of everything from first editions through empty milk bottles, cans of paint, cats’ skulls, odd shoes and umbrellas, to piles of what looked like striped pyjamas and a checked dressing gown. On one shelf stood a row of old clocks in various states of disrepair, while below them, on the broad bottom shelf, half on and half off the well-worn, well-chewed wood, lay a grizzled black and white greyhound, sound asleep amongst a nest of old magazines and newspapers, and an enormous ginger cat curled up against the dog’s belly. The cat watched their progress through one rheumy, world-weary eye.

Barney waved towards them. ‘The dog is called Kipper, because that is what he does best, and the ginger menace is called Radolpho. In the world of the brainless dog the one-eyed cat is king, and needs to be saved from himself, prevented from stealing from shopping bags, eating dog food and anything he can prise from the fridge, your plate or the bin. He likes to pee in the sink and the dog likes to have sex with stuffed toys…In fact, they both have very sordid tastes in general.’

The cat closed his eye, stretched and then settled down.

‘I really need someone to help me get the place under control,’ Barney said reflectively, flicking a long tail of cigarette ash into the bowl of a dead pot plant.

‘I can see that, but I’m not a cleaner or a housekeeper, Barney,’ said Cass, setting her suitcase down amongst the debris.

He looked aghast. ‘Good Lord, no – of course you’re not. I wasn’t suggesting for one moment that you were. But you could find one for me. I can’t do any of that kind of thing. I’m completely useless. I get myself into the most terrible muddles, get taken in and hire people who use my credit cards to buy sports cars and then steal my shoes. It’s dreadful.’

Cass looked at him. ‘Barney, you don’t need me, what you really need is a wife.’

He shook his head. ‘No, no, I don’t,’ he said emphatically. ‘No, I’ve had several of those and, trust me, while it sounds all very well and good in principle, it always ends in tears. Besides, my mother invariably hates them.’

‘Your mother?’

Barney nodded. ‘Extraordinary woman. She’s upstairs now, so I don’t have to worry about her quite so much, knowing where she is.’ As he spoke, he looked heavenwards. ‘It’s been a weight off my mind.’

Cass hesitated, wondering if ‘upstairs’ was a euphemism for dead as a stuffed skunk, but apparently not.

‘She used to be such a worry when she lived up in town. She pretends she is as deaf as a post, drinks like a sailor, is built like a wren, and has the constitution of a Chieftain tank. She terrifies me. I keep thinking the only way I’m ever going to get rid of the old bat is to shoot her.’

At which point Cass’s mobile rang.

‘I hate those things,’ grumbled Barney.

‘Is there anything you do like?’ Cass said in a voice barely above a whisper while pulling the phone out of her bag.

Barney considered for a second or two, apparently taking the question seriously. ‘Quite a few things, actually. Strip clubs, blue paint, those nice little cups they serve espresso in. Seasonal vegetables. Oh – that woman on breakfast TV with the fabulous…’ He mimed those parts that he was particularly fond of.

Cass decided to ignore him and looked at the phone to see who was calling.

‘Hi, Jake, how are you?’ she said, pressing the phone to her ear. He didn’t answer at once, which was ominous. ‘Is everything all right?’

‘Well, it depends really,’ he said.

Something about his tone made Cass’s heart sink, although surely it couldn’t be anything too awful; she had taken Danny to her mum and dad’s to stay overnight. If anything had happened to him, then they would have rung her, wouldn’t they? What about the dog? The cat? In the split seconds before Jake began speaking, Cass’s mind was running down a mental checklist that included fire, flood, pestilence and sudden pet death.

‘The police have been round.’

‘What?’ The police featured nowhere on Cass’s checklist. Although hot on the heels of that thought it occurred to her maybe something had happened to David, something nasty and well deserved…

‘You know that phone you found on the train?’

‘Yes.’

‘Well, apparently the man it belonged to has disappeared.’

Cass laughed. ‘Of course he’s disappeared – he was going to Rome.’

‘Unfortunately that isn’t what his wife said. Apparently he was meant to be going to some sort of shareholders’ meeting in London, and then going home. He hadn’t got his passport with him, and no one has seen or heard from him since.’

‘You can’t be serious. That was last week – what, four or five days ago?’

‘His wife has reported him as missing.’

‘The one who rung me? God, if I was married to her I think I’d go missing. She was a complete cow. He told me he was going to Rome.’

‘Whatever, they would like to talk to you. I’ve told them you’ll be back tomorrow.’

‘OK, I’ll sort it out when I get there. There’s not much I can tell them. How’s Milo?’

‘Fine – farting and scratching, and sound asleep on my sofa at the moment.’ Jake laughed. ‘He knows we’re talking about him; his tail has started to wag.’

‘And Bob?’

‘Sunning himself on the window sill in your kitchen about half an hour ago when I went round with a can of Felix. How’s Barney?’

Cass laughed. ‘Farting and scratching and –’

‘I’d worry if his tail starts to wag. He’s a good man. Bear with it.’

‘He’s barking mad.’

Jake was quiet for a few seconds as if considering the possibility. ‘Yes, but in a good way. Have you seen his shop yet?’

‘No, we’re going there next. We’re at the flat at the moment.’

Jake laughed. ‘Wait, it gets better. You’ll love it.’

‘I’m sorry. No comment,’ said Margaret Devlin weakly, raising a hand to fend off any questions, while pressing a large white lace-trimmed handkerchief to her exquisitely made-up face with the other. She sniffed, struggling to hold back a great flood of tears. ‘I’ll be issuing a statement through my solicitor later today, but in the meantime I would just like to say that this has been the most terrible time for our whole family. James’s death is a tragedy. I’d like to thank everyone for their tremendous support and help over the last few days. James was so very special, so very precious to us and everyone who knew him. I always saw him as a bright flame in an otherwise dark and uncaring world. Thank you.’

Margaret’s voice broke as she tried out a brave little smile on her reflection in the sitting-room mirror. Not bad at all. Although, if she was going to wear black, she would need a lot more lipstick and maybe some bigger earrings.

She leaned forward and adjusted the brim of her hat so that it framed her face a bit more and emphasised her eyes. Black was so chic, so flattering. She turned to gauge the effect. Perhaps she ought to buy a couple of new suits; after all, she wouldn’t want people thinking that she had let herself go now that she was a widow – and she would be able to afford it, once the insurance paid out. If James Devlin was dead, then Margaret would be a very wealthy woman indeed. Both of their houses paid for, the large endowment policy that had blighted their lives for so long would cough up, and she would finally be able to get her hands on all his assets: the boat, the villa in Spain, the flat in Paris, the plane, the stocks and shares, the Monopoly hand of properties he had bought to let. At last it would all be hers and she would be free of him – the tight, philandering, double-dealing, double-crossing, arrogant bastard.

James Devlin, dashing entrepreneur and man about town, always appeared so warm and affable to everyone else, but Margaret knew the truth; she knew how selfish and cruel and self-centred he could be. But if he was dead, that was a different matter altogether. She would get his pension, his savings, his classic car collection, and lots and lots and lots of sympathy. Death somehow wiped the slate clean and tidied away so many of life’s little misdemeanours.

And Margaret would have no problem at all mourning James once he was gone. Oh no, she would smile bravely and, in stronger moments, joke about what a card he had been. What a lad, what a character, but Margaret of course had always loved him, and James had always come home to her despite the other women and the gambling and the drinking and the string of questionable business deals.

She tipped her head to one side, trying to look philosophical and understanding. James Devlin was a man’s man in a world where such men were rarities. Margaret took another long hard look at her reflection framed in the mirror and made a mental note to practise looking up coyly under her eyelashes.

A flicker of movement caught Margaret’s eye; she swung round. ‘Get that fucking dog off the furniture. Now!’ she shrieked at the au pair, who had just appeared through the sitting-room doors.

‘How many times do I have to tell you that the bloody thing’s not allowed in here? Not in here, do you understand? Not – in – here. Put it outside in the run.’

‘But Mr Devlin, he loves Snoops,’ said the girl defensively, stepping between the dog – a wildly over-enthusiastic springer spaniel – and Margaret, to protect him from her icy glare.

‘Don’t you dare tell me what that miserable lying bastard loves. Put the dog out now. Look at the state of that sofa! Sodding animal, hair everywhere, and it keeps cocking its leg up the standard lamps and making the place stink.’

The girl scooped up the dog in her great big arms. It wasn’t just her arms that were big. She was heavyset and clumsy, with a face as flat and round as a full moon, hands like coal shovels, and a body like a pile of wet sacks. Margaret Devlin had gone to the agency and had personally chosen her from all the girls on file, just in case there was a repeat of the blonde Swede incident or the curvaceous Italian accident, which had resulted in Margaret having to whip a hysterical 23-year-old rabid Catholic off to a private clinic and pay her a year’s wages as hush money before sending her on a pilgrimage to Lourdes. Oh yes, James would be so much easier to deal with if he was dead.

‘And then you can go and collect Alison and Christopher from school.’

‘Yes, Mrs Devlin.’

Margaret checked her appearance again; the police had said they’d pop by to let her know how things were going, and she wanted to make sure she looked the part. Maybe black was a bit premature. She hurried upstairs to change into something navy or chocolate brown and put on a touch more lipstick…

‘Devious little bastard has done a runner. I should have bloody guessed. No backbone, no balls. I don’t like it when people take the piss,’ Gordie Mann said reflectively, almost to himself. He spoke with a soft Scottish accent. He was a businessman and banker of sorts – the sort that don’t offer internet access or radio alarm clocks when you open an account, but do come round and break your legs if you miss a payment.

He leaned across the table and looked vacantly into the middle distance for a few seconds before his attention snapped back to the small man in a beige mack seated opposite him.

‘The thing is, Mr Marshall, in a perfect world I’d like to find him and fix him and get my money back. But the problem is I’ve got to find him first – and that’s where you come in. There’s way too much police interest in this one already. He’s not just shafted me but all his bloody shareholders as well. If I go around shaking anybody’s tree, the Old Bill are going to be down on me like a ton of bricks. That bastard owes me. Him and his fucking “sure bets”. I should have known better. I should have sussed him out. Greedy wee git.’

Mr Marshall nodded. Not that he really understood dotcoms or futures or any of that crap, but he did understand revenge and frustration and a decent fee – unlike Gordie, who, he sensed, was more fluent in pain and fear. ‘So how would you like to start, Mr Mann?’

Gordie thought about it for a moment or two. ‘I thought you’d know.’

Mr Marshall nodded. ‘To some extent it was a rhetorical question. It’s usual in cases like this to start close to home.’ He took out a notebook. ‘You say that you know Mrs Devlin?’

Gordie reddened slightly. ‘Aye, I’ve known Margaret a good few years. Fine woman, is Margaret,’ he added, in a way that Mr Marshall suspected was meant to sound casual.

Mr Marshall tucked a stray thought away so that it didn’t show on his face. ‘In that case, I think we should start by paying Mrs Devlin a visit.’

Jake was right: Barney’s shop had to be seen to be believed. The main doorway was so low that you almost had to stoop to get through it and then immediately step down on to a broad flagstone floor. The windows were unmanageably small with deep sills, and Cass assumed that it would be dark and cosy inside. She was wrong.

Inside, the shop opened up like an Aladdin’s cave in a cavernous space. Part of the upper floor had been cut away, adding to the feeling of openness and light. A spiral staircase, made from what looked like a wisp of twisted silver and steel, led up into the room above, while modern prints hung on the chalky white walls, with long mirrors artfully catching every ounce of usable light. Nothing inside was dark or heavy – instead, jewellery was arranged in elegant discreetly illuminated glass cases set with salt-whitened driftwood and plaits of sea-tangled rope. Across the ceiling and down the walls thin curling bronze lighting tracks lit magical corners and hidden recesses. One was full of sea birds; waders and spoonbills made from seed pods and wire and other found objects, picking their way through a landscape of seashells and creamy white pebbles. In another alcove was a selection of silk flowers, so realistic that when she first walked by, Cass thought she could smell them. In a third was a flutter of butterflies made from crinkled handmade white paper, silver filaments and azure blue beads.

Cass stared; it was amazing and beautiful and impossible to know where to look next.

Behind the cash desk a tall languid blonde wearing manically tight jeans, an off-the-shoulder leopard-skin print top and a creamy fur stole uncurled herself slowly and smiled lazily in their direction. Barney extended a hand to introduce her.

‘Cass, I would like you to meet Daisy. She is a little cow. Between them, she and her bitch of a mother are bleeding me dry. She hates me, but other than that she is quite a nice girl. Although her taste in clothes leaves something to be desired.’ He glared at Daisy with what Cass took to be censure; not that the girl noticed. ‘It’s some sort of gift she has. She always manages to look like a cross between a streetwalker and circus performer,’ he said wearily.

Daisy pulled a face at Barney, although in amongst it all her smile broadened and instantly Cass could see the family resemblance.

‘Actually, we both hate him,’ said Daisy, warming to the subject. ‘He plied my mother with drink and drugs, seduced her, and then left her for a younger woman. It totally ruined her life and broke her heart, you know. She’s never really got over him.’

Barney’s jaw dropped and he stared at Daisy aghast. ‘Is that what she told you?’ he spluttered.

Daisy shook her head. ‘Good God, no. But since she can’t talk about you without swearing and throwing things, I’ve had to read between the lines and make it up. Is it all right if I shut up shop now?’