“I got a reply,” Gladys announced as Cynthia put a cup of coffee in front of her. Her other hand contained a clutch of newspapers.
“Oh, that’s nice, dear. From whom?” She sat down on the next chair so that they could conveniently scrutinise the papers together.
“From Shamira, of course—to my text.”
“That’s nice,” Cynthia repeated. She was already deep into page one of the Daily Mail and muttering about something which had displeased her. “What did she have to say?”
“She thanked me for our congratulations on her move. And she told me I could have another interview.”
Cynthia’s head jerked upwards. “Really?”
“Yes, but I’d have to go to Pakistan to get it. She wouldn’t be coming here. I would be taken out on some of their rescue missions.”
“That could be quite a scoop.”
“The magazine would never pay the airfare.”
“You could at least ask.”
“I already did. The editor said they’d look at the story if and when I have it.”
“Perhaps we should go. That would be a real adventure.”
“Bit like the Marigold Hotel in the movie you mean?”
“That was India wasn’t it, dear? But yes—same idea.”
Gladys looked dubious. “However well I know you, sometimes I’m not sure whether you’re being serious or not. And I’m certainly not sure about going to Pakistan, even though I’d like the story. I’ll tell you something I would like to do this morning, though. It’s a sunny day out there. Why don’t we take a walk on the common? We haven’t been there since this all kicked off.”
Cynthia’s first instinct was to refuse. She’d just made herself comfortable, the coffee in her cup was hot and strong in contrast to the pale lukewarm brew to which they were often subjected, and she was quite looking forward to combing through the printed pages for an hour or so before returning to the bungalow to potter around until lunchtime. As was her wont, Gladys had tossed a large stone into the water, upsetting the smooth routine. Then she thought, Come on, why not? Her friend was keen to go and she was right; it had been a long time since they’d taken a walk together. To return to the spot where it had all started might even be cathartic, drawing a line under the whole experience. And the sun was shining outside. There were plenty of days when hunkering down in the main hall would be equally as agreeable. So it was agreed that after ten minutes to freshen up they would set off.
Once outside the gates of the Village Cynthia felt bold and refreshed. It seemed quite normal to be out, but would she have done it herself with cajoling from Gladys? She wasn’t sure, and at that moment, if she hadn’t realised it before, she knew that becoming institutionalised again with others making decisions for her would be all too easy. She thought back to everything she’d done over the last few weeks and months. It seemed like a dream and yet it wasn’t. When they approached the spot by the last trail where the body had been found and where Gladys had trodden down the vegetation to find Charlie Willis’s credit card, she had a strange feeling of history repeating itself. That feeling persisted as a golf ball struck the tree right next to where she was standing, striking it full on before dropping straight down to conceal itself beneath the leaves of a fern, where it lay three-quarters hidden glistening in the sun. It seemed to take on a life of its own, sinking imperceptibly into the greenery but still visible if one knew where to look.
Cynthia fully expected Rupert Bear to come striding towards them and for the whole cycle to begin again, but instead it was a woman who appeared, swinging a golf club in her left hand. She was wearing tangerine-coloured cut-offs, a top in a slightly paler tangerine and a floppy white hat with a tangerine ribbon tied around it. She reminded Cynthia forcibly of the woman in the jury box, the one she had been convinced would demand the forepersonship as of right. “Did you see my ball at all?” demanded the new arrival. The style adopted carried a number of strands, most obviously a message that the two women were probably far too old to even see a ball that small, let alone recognise it for what it was. Then there was the secondary message as to whether they had a right to be out there on a public path adjoining a golf course. Finally, there was the peremptory tone akin to asking the butler why the gin and tonic was taking so long.
Cynthia was all set to reply when Gladys suddenly and theatrically clutched her left leg, which she bent double and groaned. “It hit that tree, rebounded on to my shin and then scuttled off over there.” She pointed over to the other side of the path. “You heard the crack as it hit me, didn’t you dear?” She gazed pointedly at Cynthia.
“Oh yes,” Cynthia responded loyally. “Very loud, it was.”
“Oh, are you hurt then?” asked the lady golfer.
“Yes, it stings quite a lot. I hope you’re insured.”
“Oh, I’m sure we are,” came the airy reply. “You’d have to ask about that at the clubhouse. Just mention my name, Joyce Hearst. Everyone knows me there. Now, about my ball—I’m playing a match. I can’t afford to lose it.”
“Well, in there,” said Gladys pointing again and flexing her supposedly injured leg, “by that tree.” The place she was indicating was remarkably close to where Rupert Bear’s ball had finished up and where they’d alighted on the credit card under the oak tree with the protruding angular branches. Cynthia noted with some satisfaction that the brambles had grown over, forming an even tighter shroud than they had before.
The woman’s face fell. “I suppose you couldn’t show me a bit more closely?”
“Oh no,” Gladys chipped in at once before Cynthia had the chance to offer anything. “With this leg I couldn’t possible go tramping around in there. And I’ll need my friend to support me.”
They departed, leaving the woman standing in the path swinging her club in frustration and looking as though she would gladly swat the first person who came within range. Gladys continued to limp vigorously until they were quite out of sight. Then they both dissolved in laughter.
“Serves her right,” Gladys said. “I bet everyone knows her as well!”
“I thought it was going to be Rupert again. It’s interesting they were both losing matches.”
“Well, they would be, wouldn’t they, putting their balls in the trees? The opposition were presumably on the fairway.” They walked on a few more strides before Gladys continued. “You know, you might be able to get George interested in golf.”
Cynthia was totally confused. “Me… George… golf?”
“They’re not alien concepts, dear. I’m not describing a rocket to the moon.”
“But why should George take any notice of what I say?”
“Oh, come on, dear, it may not be love’s young dream but the way he looks at you from time to time, I think he might well give your thoughts some attention. When we were doing our investigating he was galvanised, a new man you might say. He showed in the witness box how he commands respect still. His world should be greater than salivating over the thought of steak nights and brandy rations at the Village. Golf’s something you could do together. You could be mixing it with Rupert Bear and Tangerine Cut-Offs in the bar!”
“I can’t think of anything worse,” Cynthia responded hotly.
“Well, if you don’t like that idea, what about another cold case? The police said they have plenty in storage.”
“I should know by now you don’t give up easily.” Cynthia consulted her watch. “We should be thinking about turning back to be in time for lunch.”
Gladys laughed but turned around willingly enough to face in the other direction. “I’m not talking about giving up what we have,” she went on. “But you must agree we’ve moved on. We were good foot soldiers and George was a very capable leader. We showed what a bunch of retired people could do when they set their minds to it.”
Cynthia’s mind flashed back to the apprehension and excitement from their meeting Charlie Willis, the stand-out fear from their encounter with Jack Metz, her enjoyment of going with George on their visit to the bank and their lunch afterwards and most of all to their day out playing the role of a couple house hunting, which had caused her to think… well, thoughts. “We’re unlikely to have the same stroke of luck we had before in finding the credit card,” she said finally.
“That’s true—why don’t we ask George what he thinks? We could have a taskforce meeting this afternoon.”
“Agreed.” Cynthia flashed her a smile.
“And we’ll pick up that golf ball on the way,” Gladys said. “Tangerine Cut-Offs will never have found it with our directions.” She grinned. “Just in case—you know!”
**
They buttonholed George after lunch and he readily agreed to a get-together. His plans for the afternoon had only extended to a swim in the Village pool followed by a snooze out in the garden. He volunteered to snaffle the cake from the afternoon spread in the main hall if Cynthia would provide tea. He’d lost track of whether it was fruit cake that day but assured them he would do his best. The cake was always popular.
“Cold cases,” he mused after they’d sat down in their familiar places and he bit into his first piece of cake. It had turned out to be ginger, which was not in the same category as fruit but nonetheless very acceptable. “I’ve got four boxes of notes I took on cases which never got concluded. Unfortunately, there are dozens of murders in London which don’t get solved. I haven’t looked at the boxes since I‘ve been at the Village apart from when we were trying to find info on Charlie Willis and Jack Metz. They’re at the back of the garage. It’s high time I got them out and started sifting through them. Also I had a message from our friend Claude Flynn…” he nodded at Cynthia. “He’s retired now and would like to meet up.”
“What happened to the bank?” Cynthia wanted to know.
“It’s been closed down by the FCA,” George replied. “And the chief executive is going on trial for running a Ponzi scheme. Claude could be useful to us.” He grinned. “At the moment we have an ex-teacher who was an expert in turning unruly teenagers into responsible citizens…” Gladys rolled her eyes at this. “Then we have a civil servant who operated on the dark side.” It was Cynthia’s turn for some eye-rolling. “And a hoary old police superintendent. Someone with expertise in financial services would be useful for our taskforce if we’re going to work again. I’ll go back to him and see what can be organised, if you both agree.”
There was no dissent to this. “I could do with some help in going through my boxes,” George went on. “There’s no filing system in there at the moment.”
Gladys was busy examining a text on her phone. “Cynthia would be good at that; she’s the neatest person I know,” she said looking up. “I’ve another project to pursue here.”
Cynthia was conscious of them both staring at her. “Fine,” she said. “I’ll do what I can.”
“Great—then I suggest we meet again same time tomorrow and see how we’ve got on.”
**
When George opened his garage doors two things happened. Cynthia set foot on new territory and she set eyes on George’s car for the first time. It was a black BMW Z4 two-seater with a retractable roof. “I used to go out in it a lot when Miriam was alive,” George said when he saw her inspecting it, “but I hardly drive it now apart from journeys to town from time to time. I tend to order in what I need and Gladys was always ready to drive us when we had taskforce business. Taxis to the station are much easier than having to park. I keep it well polished though…” His voice died away.
“It’s lovely,” Cynthia answered, trailing her hand along the bodywork. “Perhaps we could… well, have a drive in it sometime.”
“Would you like that?”
“Yes, I would.” She remembered what Gladys had had to say out on the common. “Very much,” she added.
“Good—perhaps we could go out for a lunch when the weather’s good and put the top down. After all, we don’t always have to lunch here, do we?”
It was much a statement as a question, but Cynthia answered it anyway. “No, we don’t,” she said, with as much emphasis as she could muster.
“The weather’s supposed to be warm and sunny on Saturday,” George said.
Saturday was two days away. Cynthia thought she could wait that long. “It’s a date,” she said.
“Fine.” He hesitated. “Perhaps we’d better take a look at these boxes.”
The car sat in the middle of the garage, allowing plenty of room to pass on either side, and the boxes as George had called them were stacked in line at the back. They were in fact man-sized crates and Cynthia could hardly reach the top of them. “I tell you what,” George suggested, “why don’t we sit you in the kitchen? I’ll get these things open. Inside there are a lot of much smaller cardboard boxes. It’s a question really of sorting through them when I bring them to you.”
They went through a side door into the kitchen, which was set out rather differently from Cynthia’s, square rather than long, with an island unit in the middle rather than a table. She sat in an iron-backed chair at the island and waited until the first box arrived. “Would you like tea?” George asked as he plunked the box down. “I only have Earl Grey though.”
“That’s fine.” She began rummaging in the box.
“I could get cake from the hall.”
“Don’t bother.” She was already extricating pieces of A4 from the box. All of them seemed to have been torn off from a pad and contained notes mostly in George’s handwriting, which was spidery but easy to read. As box followed box Cynthia rapidly got to grips with the system, if there was one. Papers relating to several cases had been put in each box but they were all clearly labelled and she soon had some neat piles going up around her. Many had found their way into the wrong box but she soon sorted that out. The empty boxes she stacked up by her feet until George announced he’d emptied the first crate. “We’ll need some box files for these,” she said, pointing to the piles.
“They’re all cold cases,” George responded.
“Well, there are eight of them there which we can go through.”
“I only kept notes on cold ones, apart from this box.” He pointed to the last one. It was marked “Grouper trials”. I thought I might spend some time trying to figure out how he got away with it every time.”
Cynthia delved into the box and came out with a clutch of notes, which she spread out in front of her. “These are dated twenty-eighth and twenty-ninth of March,” she said. George stood, looking over her shoulder. “‘We must have him this time,’” Cynthia read out, “‘but he’s appearing very relaxed. The prosecution has control of the evidence.’ Then here’s the next day. ‘What the fuck’s happened?’” She turned her face towards George.
“Sorry—in the heat of the moment,” he apologised.
She turned back to reading. “‘What the fuck’s happened? They lost the evidence. There’s a stand-up row between the manager and the girl who was supposed to put it in the safe. She’s been fired. Why would she do it? She must owe the Grouper a huge favour but what could it be? She looked very red in the face this afternoon and we overheard something about a taxi not going right and the lift being fixed.’”
“Wait a minute,” George interrupted her. “Read that last bit again.”
She obliged and he dropped into a chair beside her.
“I remember the bit about the lift. We speculated about the Grouper being involved and wondered how on earth he could have done it. But I don’t remember the taxi not going right. That was the whole base of the prosecution case that she took a taxi. How could I have forgotten?”
“Oh, come on, it was thirty years ago and you weren’t actually managing the case. It could mean anything. The taxi went right when she though it was going left. That could have held up her jog back. Who knows?”
“That’s true.” His look lingered on the piles of paper she’d built. “We could buy some box files when we’re out in the car on Saturday and put that stuff away.”
“Good idea.”
He noticed her empty cup. “Would you care for another cup of tea?”
**
Gladys wore a glow of achievement when they met the next day. “My editor is very keen on another article about Shamira,” she announced as soon as they had all sat down round Cynthia’s kitchen table. “We had a very good session together yesterday. She’s full of ideas about the shape of it already.”
“Does that mean you’ll be going to Pakistan?” Cynthia asked.
“Oh no, dear.” Gladys gave her friend a pitying look, as though the idea had never crossed her mind. “I’ve already spoken with Shamira. We’re going to do it by Zoom.”
“How much technical wizardry does that require?” It was George’s question this time. “I usually get my little grandson to deal with stuff like that.”
“It’s the usual story—it’s alright when you know what you’re doing,” Gladys admitted. “But I’ve got it under control now. And Shamira is using a bodycam after what happened to her aunt so she says I can follow her out on the street. I’ll be able to write up some specimen cases.” Gladys looked more full of herself than Cynthia could recall for a long time. “Zoom isn’t as good as physically being there, sharing space and air with someone. There are going to be nuanced subtle things communicated perhaps by the flick of an eyelid which I’ll miss, but the drama of the bodycam should make up for that.”
There was a silence after she finished this little speech. Realising she had a captive audience Gladys paused before she bundled on. “However, all this means that unfortunately I won’t have too much time for cold cases. How did you two get on?” This all came out in one breath.
“Oh, we made a start on disinterring some of George’s old papers,” Cynthia told her. “We’re going out in his car on Saturday to buy some box files so we can keep them in some sort of order. The rest of them will take a while.”
“In his car? I don’t think I’ve ever seen your car, George.”
“It’s a BMW Z4 with a retractable roof,” Cynthia chimed back in.
“Oh.” Gladys abruptly appeared somewhat deflated. “Well, enjoy.”
“We also contacted Claude Flynn again,” George said. “He’s invited us round to his flat for a chat. He’s keen to join us if we ever have other investigations to follow up, and you never know, he might have other interesting information for us.”
“Like who got the rest of the gold lions?” Gladys suggested.
“Maybe.”
“Well, unfortunately I won’t be joining you with all my other commitments. I’m expecting several more sessions with my editor.”
“That’s all right. Cynthia’s told me she’s willing to come and I haven’t asked her yet, but it provides me with another excuse to invite her out for a nice lunch.”
Cynthia tried hard not to look as though Christmas and Easter had come together. “That sounds lovely,” she said.
“Well, as I said before, enjoy.” Gladys gave Cynthia a smile which held all sorts of messages, including one labelled ‘I told you so’. “Something just to mention before we part company. When I had my initial Zoom conversation with Shamira yesterday she panned round her office, which used to be Helena’s. There’s a very pretty walled garden outside which she showed me. One thing which caught my attention was a gold ornament on her desk. It was a long way off but it did look like a lion.”
“Is that right?” George looked thoughtful.
“Yes, it was only an impression, mind you. It could have been any kind of gold ornament, I suppose. I can’t really understand why she would have one of the lions.”
“No.” He was still thoughtful but then he seemed to move on. “Well, in view of our immediate plans, we probably don’t need to have another meeting for the time being.”
The two other members didn’t take long to chorus: “Agreed.”
“And of more immediate interest I hear there’s an extra brandy night scheduled this evening as there were only short rations at the last one. I suggest we take advantage, and may I invite you to join my table in the bar?”
It didn’t take them long to agree to that one either!
End