The Cinderella Moment

‘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.’

‘When?’ snapped Margaret. ‘When did she ring you?’

‘A little while ago, maybe a few minutes, on my mobile. She say I have to go home. Excuse me, I have to go and pack now. I’m sorry.’

You will be, thought Margaret murderously.

The girl turned on her heel and made for the door at around the same time that DI Turner continued, ‘As I was about to say, Mrs Devlin, I would appreciate if you could answer one or two small points. Although I can see that this may not be the moment. Perhaps you would like me to come back at a mutually convenient time?’

Margaret painted on a smile and waved the words away. ‘No, not at all. It’s fine, Inspector. I’m sure I can sort er…’ the girl’s name refused to come ‘…sort things out when you’ve gone. She has always been a little volatile, and her command of English, well, you know.’ Margaret held up her hands to encompass all manner of craziness and misunderstanding. The Inspector smiled and nodded encouragingly, so Margaret carried on. ‘James drew up her contract of employment. I really had no idea about the sick mother clause,’ she said with false heartiness. ‘Laughable, really. But it’s so like him. Ah well. Now, what did you want to know?’

The Inspector seemed delighted that she had brought James up voluntarily. ‘Did your husband always deal with your domestic arrangements? You know, the hiring and firing of staff and that sort of thing?’

‘Yes, as a matter of fact, he did,’ agreed Margaret; why not blame James for her dilemma? She had completely forgotten about the stupid girl’s sick bloody mother. Fancy bringing it up now, at a time like this when it was quite obvious Margaret needed all the help she could get. Selfish little cow. Margaret felt a great wave of self-pity settling over her. What on earth was she going to do now? Who was going to clean and cook for the children? Good Lord, it was dreadful, unthinkable. Mrs Hill, her daily, would never be able to manage it all on her own.

Inspector Turner leaned forward. ‘Are you all right, Mrs Devlin? Can I get you something? A glass of water?’

She pulled out a lacy hankie and sniffed back the tears. ‘No, thank you. It’s very kind, but I’ll be fine, Inspector. James usually interviewed the girls we employed. In fact this is the first au pair I have ever actually chosen myself. James never really asked the right questions, if you follow me; he didn’t seem to realise how important it was that they could cook or clean or look after the children adequately.’ She left the implication hanging in the air between them.

DI Turner smoothed his moustache and then looked her up and down; it was a most provocative glance. Margaret felt herself blushing.

‘So what do you think he chose them for, if not for their domestic skills?’ the Inspector asked in a low voice.

Coyly Margaret looked down at the Oriental rug and noticed rather sourly that there were still biscuit crumbs on it from yesterday. ‘I’m sure you can imagine that life with James hasn’t always been easy. You must be aware of my husband’s reputation, Inspector,’ she said in a low voice.

DI Turner nodded. ‘I am. But, to be honest, having met you, Mrs Devlin, I’m surprised.’

‘Surprised?’

‘Absolutely. I’m surprised that he bothered, not with a good-looking woman like you waiting at home.’

At least the WPC had the good grace to look away. Margaret’s colour deepened to a warm, flattering pink.

Outside, the worker ants continued to empty James’s office, and from upstairs somewhere came the throbbing bass beat of a pop song. Margaret couldn’t work out whether it was coming from one of the children’s rooms or the au pair’s. Whoever it was, she would make sure somebody paid for it later.

By the time DI Turner finally got to the end of his questions, Margaret had some idea of exactly how bad things were. James had managed to head off into the sunset with around two million pounds, give or take a bob or two; not to mention various assets – property, shares, God knows what – which he had liquidated. DI Turner didn’t mention Gordie Mann’s investment, or the whereabouts of James’s diary or address books. Perhaps they didn’t know about them.

It seemed that even their house had been mortgaged more times than was credible. In a nutshell, Margaret Devlin had nothing. In fact, given the state of the mortgage situation, probably considerably less than nothing.

Once he had finished speaking, Margaret stared at DI Turner for a very long time. Finally he looked down at his notes.

‘And you say you have no current photos of your husband?’

Margaret shook her head. ‘I’m afraid not. James liked to take photos, but he was practically phobic about being in them.’

DI Turner nodded thoughtfully. ‘It’s amazing. It appears that your husband has vanished, which, in an age of CCTV and modern technology, is close to a miracle. And have you any idea as to the whereabouts of his diary?’ Margaret shook her head. It was true; she had no idea where it was now – the weaselly Mr Marshall could have taken it anywhere; same with James’s address books.

DI Turner paused, looking out into the middle distance. ‘I have to ask you, Mrs Devlin, if you have any idea where your husband might have gone?’ he said, after what seemed like an eternity.

Margaret shook her head. After the revelations about the state of her finances, she didn’t know how to speak, couldn’t find the words to say exactly what it was she felt. But one thing was certain: any ideas she might have about James Devlin’s whereabouts weren’t going to be shared with the police – at least not until she had had her five-penn’orth. Maybe she would ring Gordie and see if he and his man had come up with anything.

If she could find him, James Devlin would rue the day he’d done this to her. She would make him pay in ways he had never ever dreamed of; he would be glad to give himself up to the police and possibly even Gordie by the time she had done with him.

‘I’m afraid not, Inspector,’ Margaret said, letting the words catch in her throat to emphasise her regret. ‘Would you like some more tea, or would you prefer something a little stronger? To be perfectly honest, I think I could use a drop of brandy myself.’

DI Turner barely hesitated. ‘I don’t mind if I do,’ he said, ignoring the look from the WPC on the sofa.

‘Your husband, Mr David Hammond, has agreed, under the terms of his credit agreement with our company, to surrender the car in lieu of any further payments.’ The repo man, who had been reading his little speech from a laminated prompt card, paused and tried out a smile. Cass wondered if perhaps it was suggested in the script. ‘Do you understand?’ he said. He had a nasty nasal twang.

Cass nodded. What was there not to understand?

‘And then, obviously, once we’ve gone through all the formalities I’ll write you out a receipt.’

‘Oh well, that will really help,’ said Cass grimly. The formalities presumably meant taking her car keys away.

He smiled at her again. ‘You know, there’s absolutely no need to be upset. You really don’t have to worry. I mean, people do get upset, but this kind of thing happens all the time.’

‘Not to me, it doesn’t,’ said Cass through gritted teeth. First thing she’d heard about her car going was a cheery note from the finance company arranging a date and a time.

‘So let’s see, where have we got to? Oh yes, here we are,’ he said, running a finger down the laminated card. ‘Do you have the documentation, or know where it can be located?’ he read. The guy was a real genius. ‘The log book –’

The car in question, a bright shiny black Vauxhall Corsa that Cass adored, had been a birthday present from David. A present, a nasty little voice in her head reminded her, not something to be surrendered in lieu of bloody payments.

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