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  “Really,” Mary said again, although this time even more slowly than before.

  “Was she – ” Ted tried not to get his hopes up. “Was she alone?”

  “As far as I could tell,” Gorby pulled his phone from his pocket. “See for yourself.”

  Mary and Ted couldn’t take their eyes from the screen where Rion chased her shadow around the raised tomb.

  “Could she be homeless?” Mary asked breathlessly, watching the short film again.

  “If she is – ” Ted began only for Mary to finish the sentence for him, “ – she could be just what we’re looking for.”

  All three smiled at each other as the same thought filtered through their minds.

  Mary raised her glass, “To the ghost!”

  “The ghost!” Gorby and Ted echoed. They clinked their glasses and sat down to supper, excited at the thought of a homeless young girl and all that could entail.

  10

  LADY PETERS!

  Having spent the last nine days soaking up the glorious Indian summer in Brighton, Wayne was feeling good about things. He could even handle the phone call which, the screen on his mobile told him, was from the person who had been chasing him all week.

  “Where on earth have you been?”

  Wayne moved the phone away from his ear but still the clipped tones of his employer were clearly audible.

  “I’ve left numerous messages and – ”

  “I engineered the first meeting.” Wayne loved using this sort of language, it made him feel so clever.

  Slightly mollified Candida asked, “What did you wear?”

  “I wore everything.”

  “Even the hat?”

  “Everything.”

  It had been expensive kitting Wayne out at the Australian clothiers in Covent Garden, but Candida hoped it would be worth it. How could Ollie resist a body like Wayne’s in hulking cowboy boots? She figured correctly that Ollie must have a rancher fantasy somewhere in his psyche.

  “How did it go?”

  Wayne thought back to the previous week in the park and Ollie’s quizzical expression. “He was in a bit of a hurry but it went ok.”

  Immediately after he said ‘ok’ he knew he’d made a mistake.

  “Ok?” Candida’s voice went even colder than usual. “Ok?” she repeated. “I’m not paying you to be ‘ok’.”

  “What I mean is it went quite well.”

  “Quite well?” Candida’s icy tones sent a shiver down his spine.

  “Yes, I – ” Wayne thought for several seconds to get the phrasing just right. “I scoured the terrain, preparing traps to open doors.”

  Candida correctly surmised that her exceptional looking lure had spent the unusually hot weather out of London. Still, if he had a tan to go with that body she would soon have the painting she was after.

  “Make sure you do – open the doors I mean. I want results, Wayne. Results.”

  Wayne coughed. “There’ve been expenses.”

  “Keep the receipts and an explanation.”

  “You don’t get receipts for information.” Wayne knew how women such as his employer liked being deferred to. Deciding it was time to tug a forelock or two he added, “Miss.”

  That was something Candida liked about Wayne. Being called ‘Miss’ in her mid-thirties made her feel almost coy.

  “When are you seeing him again?”

  “Tomorrow Miss.”

  Ah, that ‘Miss’ again. Candida softened for a second. Then she snapped out of it. “The next time you see him hum Bewitched.”

  He had dressed up in cowboy clothes which, admittedly, he had quite enjoyed; he had booked an appointment with the hairdresser’s and tanning salon for a radical change of image and now he had to – what?

  “Sorry Miss?”

  “You know Bewitched, that sixties tv show – ” Candida began to whistle the theme tune and was relieved when Wayne joined in. He had seen the re-make on the flight back from Tenerife the previous year.

  “Just whistle that when you see him ok?”

  The newly appointed editor of Glamourista put her turquoise pumps on the desk and gazed out the window. In the square below secretaries ate sandwiches and drank Diet Coke in the sunshine. Some – were these the popular ones or merely the desperate, she wondered – snogged pimply young men called Gary or Kev who lived in Leytonstone and hadn’t the faintest idea about skincare.

  There were no sandwiches on the editor’s desk. In front of her was an exquisite lacquered Bento box, its small compartments filled with no-fat Japanese delicacies.

  Eschewing chopsticks for fingers Angie Peters marvelled at what a title can do for a girl. Ever since her husband had been knighted for Services to Industry earlier in the year, her rise through the ranks of contributing editors had been swift.

  Astonishingly swift.

  Chins wagged, heads nodded, phones rung, positions offered. As such Angie had jumped over numerous ‘Mrs’, several ‘Ms’ and a couple of ‘Hons’ until here she sat in the hallowed leather chair, her position personally appointed by Luca Mortimer, the owner of the publishing empire in which Glamourista played a small, but glittering, part.

  She thought of phoning Jake on his mobile and talking dirty. It was unfortunate, even downright unfair, that he was working all this week but in some strange way the fact that she couldn’t dictate the terms made the relationship even more enjoyable.

  Being in charge at the magazine, she mused with a smile, meant she could probably hire him as a personal trainer – or ‘bonkmaster-to-the-editor’ as he would be known behind his back – and let Luca pick up his salary, but she knew Jake would never consent to that.

  Besides she didn’t want him around all the time.

  Also she loved the wonder of the treehouse amidst the Gothic splendour of the decaying Victorian cemetery. Its exquisite proximity to Edwin’s office at Peters & Peters made it all the more delicious. That and the fact that no one knew it was there.

  And no-one knew she was there. Yes, all in all it was pretty damn perfect.

  The chime of the office intercom calmly interrupted her reverie. Again she thanked God that her first task had been to change the cardiac inducing buzzer to a more zenlike gong.

  “Yes Miranda?”

  “I have Johnson Ogle on line one Lady Peters.”

  Lady Peters! She still hadn’t got used to the title and certainly never tired of hearing it.

  Angie swivelled in her chair before clicking through. She had met Johnson at Wanda Mozzoni’s the previous week. Over several glasses of Krug she had said the magazine would be interested in the celebrated lifestyle enhancer doing a regular column on design.

  Which they would be. Johnson was always good value.

  He was also one never to let an opportunity for self-promotion slip by.

  “Johnson sweetie.”

  “Angie,” the decorator’s rich voice oozed charm. “You don’t still have that chaise- longue in last year’s leopard print do you?”

  Whilst Angie was considering the best way in which to answer, Johnson continued, “Because I have an offcut of the most beautiful thick golden raw silk that a certain someone – the most I can say is that her daughter is named after a certain place of pilgrimage.... are you with me?”

  Angie hoped he meant Madonna and not Ada Collaren, the WAG queen who followed suit and named her daughter Medugorge after the faux Yugoslavian site. The style-bereft Ada, whose husband’s millions and the attention of the world’s top stylists had still not hidden the fact that she was the dernier cri in naffness, was a renowned bandwagonjumper. Whilst Angie was quite happy for the hapless Ada to appear in her magazine looking frightful in assorted frocks, she did not want to appear linked to her in anyway. Even sharing fabric from the same decorator would be too close.

  As if reading her mind Johnson hinted, “Her initial is M not A.”

  That did it.

  “Johnson, you’re so clever. I was just going to have it recovered,” Ang
ie lied.

  “Let me do it for you darling. Send it to the showroom a toute vitesse. It’ll be my welcoming present.” With the trivia out of the way Johnson got to the real point of the call. “Now about this column you mentioned at Wanda’s.”

  “Interested?”

  “Hmmmm – ” Johnson hummed and hawed. He knew what the editor really wanted – but it was not something he was prepared to give. “You’re not after design tips are you Angie?”

  Johnson knew the game too well.

  “Mainly, but not entirely.” What Angie really wanted was high quality gossip for herself and her readers. She figured that being editor of Glamourista should entitle her to be privy to the secrets of the rich and famous.

  And Johnson was famously well connected.

  He was also famously discreet.

  “Johnson you know I wouldn’t dream of asking you for any tattle, at least not in print.”

  The lifestyle enhancer was tempted. It was risky though. His top clients didn’t want anything on their houses in any magazine.

  “Anything about footballers, their wives and boob jobs – fine. But anyone else?”

  “We won’t go there,” Angie finished in her most soothing of voices. She could tell he was nearly snared.

  “Do a profile on me and we’ll talk further. Get Nicky Dixon for the photos – did you see her shots of Jim James?” The weight of the hearthrob popstar (real name Dimitri Constanzos) was a national talking point on a par with the weather. “She took at least fifteen pounds off him – and – ”

  Angie waited for some ludicrous demand.

  “Think about where you’re going to put the chaise-longue. The silk shimmers beautifully at sunset.”

  11

  RETURN OF THE COWBOY

  Rion stood at the sitting room window. Halfway down the cobbled mews she could see Auntie Em talking to Ollie who lay in his y-fronts on a lilo in the sunshine. Hum lay in the shadows beside him.

  It had been ten days since she had been outside, ten days of unusually hot weather which she hadn’t been able to enjoy. Although she was still feeling weak she was much, much better. Rion knew she was well on the road to recovery and it was all due to her new friends. Still, Doctor Gidwani had said to stay inside and Auntie Em was making sure she did.

  She had quickly learnt there was no arguing with Auntie Em. It was easier to get round Auntie Gem but Auntie Em? No way. Rion didn’t mind their strictness, which she knew was borne of love and was really, ‘for her own good’.

  Her parents had often used that expression, ‘for her own good’, but Rion didn’t understand how a beating could be for anyone’s good, especially when she had done nothing to deserve it. She had often wondered what her parents were trying to beat out of her.

  She didn’t have to wonder anymore. Rion had decided that it was all in the past and in the past it would stay.

  What Rion did wonder about though, was the nature of the conversation in the mews below.

  Ollie squinted up at Auntie Em who was filling him in on Rion’s progress. In her hand she held a circular chain jammed with keys. “It’s too early of course, sweetness, and for the time being she’s certainly staying here but – ” Auntie Em pulled off a large rusty key from the chain, “ – would you see what needs doing in lA? I’m sure it’s just a question of clearing out the pigeons but it would be best to see.”

  Ollie smiled and took the key, “Consider it done Auntie Em.”

  As Auntie Em went back up the mews to her house, Ollie, in an effort to tan the white strip running from his armpit to his waist, moved onto his side and stretched his arms over his head like a highboard diver.

  With eyes closed he stayed in this most uncomfortable of positions until a vaguely familiar voice roused him.

  “The sides are always the worst aren’t they?”

  Ollie opened his eyes, blinking into the sunshine to see a shockingly blond, strikingly tanned, man smiling down at him. Ollie shielded the sun with one hand to make sure that what he was seeing was real. He tried not to stare but it was impossible not to. The man had the most amazing body, toned and strong, squeezed into t-shirt and jeans that were bulgingly tight without looking sprayed on.

  “Excuse me?” Ollie closed his eyes for a second, making sure to brand the image on his brain. If all else failed he would at least have this picture on file to provide happy moments on otherwise dull days.

  “The sides,” the man gestured dangerously close to Ollie’s body, “need extra attention don’t they?”

  Ollie decided to play along. “They sure do.”

  “Can I park my van here for a couple of hours?” the man flashed a dazzling smile at Ollie. “I’m doing some work on Golborne Road and they’ve started clamping. It’ll just be for an hour or two until,” he looked at his watch, “four at the latest.”

  Ollie knew Auntie Em’s policy about strangers parking in the mews but desperate times called for desperate measures.

  “Well,” he didn’t want to appear too eager but it was difficult not to, “if you park outside my house,” Ollie gestured to the yellow door behind him – was that too keen? “it’ll be ok. Just this once though,” he said, smiling to make sure that wasn’t necessarily the case.

  The man quickly returned with a pick-up that rattled into the mews and parked outside Ollie’s.

  “I’ll be back at four,” the man said dazzling Ollie with another smile. “I owe you one mate.”

  Wayne nearly jumped when he saw himself reflected in the pick-up’s side mirror. He still hadn’t got used to the blond hair nor the extreme tan. Putting phase two of the plan into action Wayne sauntered out of the mews whistling the theme tune to Bewitched.

  “I can’t believe you let him do that.”

  Ollie turned to see Nicky coming out of her door opposite. In one hand she carried a metallic case filled with photographic accessories, in the other her crash helmet.

  “Did you see – ” stuck for words Ollie gesticulated with his hands, “ – that?”

  “You wouldn’t have let him park there if he was ugly.” Before Ollie could protest Nicky held up her hand, “You wouldn’t have done,” she said firmly.

  “I have an ulterior motive.”

  Nicky rolled her eyes.

  “It’s that builder fantasy isn’t it Ol? The one where they wear nothing but a hard hat and a belt full of spanners and you talk about equipment and erections and – ”

  “No!” he said mustering as much indignance as he dared, “that’s the scaffolder’s one anyway. If you must know Auntie Em asked me to check out lA, see if any work needs doing.”

  “And you think he might do the business so to speak?”

  “That would be up to Auntie Em, but it would be tempting fate not to find out. ‘See a builder pick him up and all day long you’ll have good luck,’” Ollie recited.

  Nicky slotted the case into one of the panniers of her black Honda 550, pulled her helmet on and straddled the bike, “I can’t believe you have a rhyme for that.” She started the powerful machine, clicked down the visor and eased her way out of the mews.

  The hunk was as good as his word. On almost the dot of four he ambled down the mews. Ollie immediately phoned Auntie Em.

  “He’s here.”

  “I can see that sweetness.”

  Ollie looked out to see Auntie Em, phone in hand, at her sitting room window.

  “And this has nothing to do with the way he looks?”

  Ollie knew he’d be fooling no one, least of all Auntie Em, if he protested.

  “We do need someone.”

  “I’ll be there in a sec angel.”

  Ollie clicked off the phone. Going outside he found the man hovering about as if waiting to see him. Waiting to see him! This was getting better and better.

  “You couldn’t have a look at something for us could you?” Ollie blushed slightly at how the question could be construed. Behind the man Ollie could see Auntie Em approaching from her end of the mews.
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  “I’d be happy to,” the man winked at Ollie leaving him slightly breathless. What does a wink mean again? He must ask Nicky.

  “There’s a property at the end that’s been empty for ages and could do with some attention,” Ollie again struggled against the unintended double entendre which had, he half-hoped, gone unnoticed. He had taken a quick look at lA earlier on. Apart from having pigeons, both alive and dead, and some plastering that needed redoing, the house had weathered its neglect pretty well.

  With relief he saw that Auntie Em was now beside them. “This is the owner, Ms Nelson.”

  The man turned to Auntie Em and shook her hand with just enough strength to show he meant business but without crushing her.

  “Wayne Watson.”

  He then turned smiling to Ollie, “We haven’t met.”

  As Ollie took the outstretched hand he felt a shiver followed by a spasm to the groin. The builder’s hand had a rough firmness to it and Ollie was sure he felt Wayne’s middle finger graze the soft underside of his wrist. He couldn’t believe people still did that, it seemed so seventies, so closeted.

  But it felt surprisingly sexy.

  “I’m Ollie.”

  Lost for words he looked at Auntie Em who took charge.

  “Follow me Mr Watson.”

  Entering the house at the top of the mews, they moved through the narrow hallway where a child’s toy gathered dust in the corner.

  “How long since it’s been inhabited?” Wayne asked as they filed up the stairs.

  “Well, the old stabling part downstairs was used for storage by some market traders but not for at least three years,” Auntie Em explained. “They used to wake people up at five in the morning and so had to go.”

  “I can never understand how people can be so cheerful at such an hour,” Ollie said.

  “Unless you haven’t been to bed,” Wayne remarked.

  Ollie wondered if he was the only one who noticed how Wayne stressed the final word.

  Coming to the top of the small flight of stairs they stepped into the large sitting room that made up most of the living area. 1A had the same layout as the other houses in the mews, except for Gem ‘n Em’s larger C-shaped house at the end.