‘There seems to be a pattern emerging, doesn’t there?’ Lizzie Mantle said. ‘He tells his friends in England that his first wife, Joanna, has gone off to America. Then he tells his friends in Australia that his second has gone back to England. And all their friends believed him!’
‘This one didn’t apparently,’ Grace said.
‘So why didn’t she go to the police?’ Bella asked. ‘She must have been suspicious, surely?’
‘Because in her world people don’t go to the police,’ Lizzie Mantle said.
‘Exactly,’ Grace confirmed with a wry smile at the DI. ‘And the criminal fraternity over there is even more male-dominated than it is here. They’re interviewing her again tomorrow, when she’s going to give a list of all the Nelsons’ friends and acquaintances out there.’
‘That’s great,’ Bella said, taking another Malteser. ‘But if he’s legged it abroad-’
‘I know,’ Grace said. ‘But we might find out where his favourite haunts abroad are, or if he had any hankering for some particular sunny fleshpot.’
‘I’ve got some thoughts on that,’ Glenn Branson said. ‘Well, Bella and me have.’
‘OK. Tell us.’
‘We interviewed Skeggs quite extensively on Friday and on Saturday, and we took a statement from Abby Dawson at her mother’s flat in Eastbourne yesterday morning. We also returned her stamps to her, which we recovered from Skeggs’s vehicle – I took the precaution of copying them first, so we have a record. She also signed the paperwork agreeing to produce the stamps as an exhibit, if necessary, and not dispose of them.’
‘Good thinking,’ DI Mantle said.
‘Thank you. Now, here’s the thing. Bella and me don’t feel we’re getting the truth from Abby Dawson. We’re getting what she wants us to hear. I’m not happy about her story of where she got the stamps. She’s maintaining she inherited them from an aunt in
Sydney by the name of – ’ he flipped back through his notes, then found the page – ‘
‘And we know that he is a principled man who always tells the truth,’ Grace said.
‘I’d trust him with my last five-pound note,’ Glenn said, returning the sarcasm. ‘Which is probably all anyone would have left after doing business with him. He’s a seriously nasty piece of work. But there’s a connection to Ronnie, that’s what this is all about, I’m certain.’ He looked around.
Grace nodded for him to go on.
‘Hugo Hegarty is certain that these are the stamps he bought for Lorraine Wilson.’
‘But not so certain he’d swear on it in a court of law, is he?’ Lizzie Mantle interjected.
‘No, and that could be a problem down the line,’ Branson replied. ‘Some of the single ones have postmarks – he can’t swear they are the same as the ones on the stamps he acquired for Lorraine Wilson back in 2002, because he didn’t keep a record of the postmarks. Or maybe he just doesn’t want to get involved.’
‘Why not?’ Grace questioned.
‘All the dealings were done in cash. I suspect he doesn’t want to raise his head above the parapet and attract the interest of the Inland Revenue, on top of the police.’
Grace nodded; that made sense. ‘And how strong a claim to them does Skeggs have?’
‘Skeggs was effing and blinding about Abby Dawson having stolen his stamps, saying that was the reason he took her mother, it was the only thing he could think of doing that would bring her to her senses,’ Glenn Branson replied.
‘He never tried just asking nicely for them back?’
Branson smiled. ‘I asked him if that was the case, if he wanted to press charges against her for theft. Then he went all quiet. Surprise, surprise. Started muttering about
‘Very interesting he said that,’ Grace commented.
‘Know what I think?’ Branson said. ‘That there’s some kind of love triangle going on here. That’s what this is about.’
‘Do you want to expand on that?’ Grace asked.
‘I can’t, not at the moment. But that’s what I reckon.’
Thinking out aloud, Grace said, ‘If David Nelson – Ronnie Wilson – did put her up to this, it’s very significant.’
‘We’ll keep pressing Skeggs, but his brief’s keeping him quite well bottled up,’ Glenn said.
‘What about putting more surveillance on her?’ DC Boutwood suggested.
Grace shook his head. ‘Too costly. I’m thinking that David Nelson may well have left Australia, if he has any sense. He won’t risk showing his face in England. So my bet is that Abby Dawson will go to meet him somewhere. We put out an all-ports on her. If she buys an air ticket or turns up at a passport control, then we’ll follow her.’
‘Good thinking,’ Glenn Branson said.
DI Mantle nodded. ‘I agree.’
121
It was one of those all too rare autumn days when England looked at its very best. Abby stared out of the window at the clear blue sky and the morning sun that was low but warm on her face.
Two floors below in the manicured gardens, a gardener was at work with some kind of outdoor vacuum cleaner, hoovering up leaves. An elderly man in a crisp mackintosh walked slowly and jerkily around the perimeter of the ornamental pond, which was stocked with koi carp, prodding the ground ahead of him with his Zimmer frame as if wary of landmines. A little white-haired lady sat on a bench on the highest part of the terraced lawns, parcelled up in a quilted coat, studying a page of the Daily Telegraph intently.
The Bexhill Lawns Rest Home was more expensive than the home she had originally budgeted for, but it was able to accommodate her mother right away and, hey, who was counting the cost now?
Besides, it was a joy to see her mother looking so happy here and so well. It was hard to believe that two weeks ago today, Abby had entered that van and looked down at her bewildered face sticking out of the rolled-up carpet. She seemed a new person now, with a new lease of life. As if, somehow, all she had been through had strengthened her.
Abby turned to look at her. She had the same lump in her throat that was always there when she was saying goodbye to her mother. Always scared it would be the last time she saw her.
Mary Dawson sat on the two-seater sofa in the large, well-appointed room, filling in a form in one of her competition magazines. Abby walked across, laid a hand tenderly on her shoulder and looked down.
‘What are you trying to win?’ she asked, her voice choked as their last, precious minutes together were ticking away. Her taxi would be here soon.
‘A fortnight for two in a luxury hotel in Mauritius!’
‘But Mum, you don’t even have a passport!’ Abby chided her good-humouredly.
‘I know, dear, but you could easily get me one if I needed one, couldn’t you?’ She gave her daughter a strange look.
‘What do you mean by that?’
Smiling like an impish child, she replied, ‘You know exactly what I mean, dear.’
Abby blushed. Her mother had always been sharp as a tack. She’d never been able to hide anything from her for long, right from earliest childhood.
‘Don’t worry,’ her mother added. ‘I’m not going anywhere. There’s a cash prize as an alternative.’
‘I’d love you to get a passport,’ Abby said, sitting on the sofa, putting an arm around her frail shoulders and kissing her on the cheek. ‘I’d love you to join me.’
‘Where?’
Abby shrugged. ‘When I get settled somewhere.’
‘And have me turn up and cramp your style?’
Abby gave a wistful laugh. ‘You wouldn’t ever cramp my style.’
‘Your dad and I, we were never much ones for travelling. When your late aunt, Anne, moved to Sydney all those years ago, she kept telling us how wonderful it was and that we should move out there. But your dad always felt his roots were here. And mine are too. But I’m proud of you, Abby. My mother used to say that one mother could support seven children, but seven children could never support one mother. You’ve proved her wrong.’
Abby fought back her tears.
‘I’m really proud of you. There’s not much more a mother could ask of a daughter. Except maybe one thing.’ She gave her a quizzical look.
‘What?’ Abby smiled at her, knowing what was coming.
‘Babies?’
‘Maybe one day. Who knows. Then you’d have to get a passport and come and be with me.’
Her mother looked down at her entry form again for some moments. ‘No,’ she said, and shook her head firmly. Then she put down her pen, took her daughter’s hand with her own bony, liver- spotted fingers and squeezed it tightly.
Abby was surprised by her strength.
‘Always remember one thing, Abby dear, if you ever decide to become a parent. First you give your children roots. Then you give them wings.’
122
