Bay Tree Cottage Page 3

  ‘Wow!’ Emil stared round the communications room, which covered one half of the roof space, with a rather low ceiling at one side. There were big sheets of transparent plastic sheeting over the surfaces now. ‘I didn’t realise it was so well equipped.’

  ‘Yes, and every single piece of paper is as they left it. Incredible, isn’t it? I feel honoured to be able to keep it safe. The heritage people have done a preliminary assessment and are now working out how best to display everything so that the public can see but not touch.’

  ‘Yes, they’ve been in touch with Dad about it. May I take photos, Angus?’

  ‘As long as you promise not to give copies to anyone except your father.’

  ‘I promise.’

  When Emil had finished, Angus opened a concealed door in the wood panelling that covered all the walls and revealed a narrow staircase that was hardly more than a ladder. ‘Watch how you go.’

  They backed down it into the tunnels.

  At the bottom Angus said, ‘Turn right. The other direction is open now underground at the place where the lorry caused the cave-in, but that passage leads to an electricity substation and that’s got a metal grille across it now. I have no right to go into it and someone at the council, probably Madam Wasp, has the key. There isn’t anything to see in the tunnels, really, but you’ll get a feel for the cellar and passages, at least.’

  He switched on some lights. ‘Those who built it had to use torches but we put in lights using the electricity supply from Number 6, which is the largest house in Saffron Lane.’

  Emil followed him along the tunnel, shivering in the chill air. The ceiling and walls of the passage were shored up with sheets of corrugated iron, held in place by rough wooden posts and joists. As Angus had said, there was nothing to see except a locked door at the other end. But he felt a tension in the air, as if something might happen at any moment.

  It was probably his imagination, but it made him glance over his shoulder a couple of times.

  Angus grinned. ‘Makes me feel like that too, sometimes. I won’t take you into Number 6. We’d only tramp in dirt and, actually, the door is so well hidden I don’t want to disturb it, because we’re going to have artists living there.’

  As they started back, he said, ‘I wouldn’t put it past the Brody woman to be prowling up and down the road and peering through the windows of all the empty houses. I’ll check afterwards that she really has left the street, then perhaps you’d like to come up to the big house for a cuppa before you set off back to Leeds?’

  Emil smiled. ‘Actually, I’m staying in town from now on. Dad has a regional branch office here. Not everyone likes to buy their insurance online and there are claims to deal with, too. I’ll take a rain check on the cuppa, if you don’t mind. I’m supposed to be meeting the guy who’s been running the branch for a briefing. He’s taking early retirement and I’m going to pick his brains before he goes, because there isn’t a detail he doesn’t understand about the insurance industry.’

  ‘Do you have somewhere to stay? We aren’t well supplied with hotels and B & Bs here, I’m afraid.’

  ‘I shall be moving into the flat above the office till I see how things stand. It’s been empty for years but apparently all the domestic equipment in it is still functional.’

  ‘Welcome to Sexton Bassett, then. We’ll maybe get together another time.’

  ‘I’d like that. I’ve been working frenetically in Australia and am intending to slow down and smell the roses now I’m back, as they say. I’m really looking forward to exploring Wiltshire. It’s such a beautiful county. You’ll have to tell me the best places to go. I wish it’d warm up a bit, though. I’m still getting used to a cooler climate.’

  ‘Well, it’ll be summer soon.’

  Emil chuckled. ‘The UK summer is quite similar to the West Australian winter.’

  Angus locked up Number 1 and waved the visitor goodbye. Ms Brody’s small red car might no longer be parked in Saffron Lane, but he could see it in the street outside the entrance to Dennings. She wasn’t sitting in it and there was no sign of her anywhere that he could see. What the hell was the devious idiot up to now? He hoped she wasn’t going to keep trespassing. He had better things to do than keep an eye out for her.

  He went to knock on Stacy’s door. He’d better warn her and Elise about Charlene Brody’s attempts to interfere and reassure them that she had no authority over Saffron Lane, whatever she said.

  When Angus got back to the big house, Nell was working on preparations for the interviews to select artists for Numbers 4 and 5. She’d printed out the emailed photos of the various artists’ work and was studying one so intently it took her a minute to realise her husband was back.

  She put the papers down. ‘How did it go? Did you find a burglar casing the joint?’

  He joined her at the table and explained about Emil Kinnaird, then indicated the scatter of folders and paperwork. ‘Got any favourites among this new lot of applicants for residencies?’

  ‘These are my favourites and they all look quite good. What I’m trying to figure out is how commercial their work is. Look at this embroidery. It’s gorgeous, a modern take on seventeenth-century raised stump work. If I have any favourite, it’s this artist.’

  He let out a low whistle. ‘It’s lovely, got a rather quirky charm to it.’

  ‘Yes, but how commercial can such work be? We have to be practical about who we allow to set up here. It must take ages to do a piece of embroidery as exquisite as this, so how many will she have available to sell? Even if she has some stored away, I doubt her output will be enough for her to make a living from after those are sold, and therefore not enough to give us a good profit.’

  ‘I see what you mean.’

  ‘We’re not setting up an artistic charity, but trying to find a way to turn that row of houses into an asset. An art gallery and café will complement visits to the big house on open day quite nicely, too.’

  ‘If you don’t think this work is commercial, why did you ask her to come for an interview?’

  ‘Because it’s gorgeous. Her scenes are so lively. Some of the figures and set-ups make me smile every time I look at them. I wanted her to at least have the satisfaction of having gained an interview. And besides—’ She broke off and frowned.

  ‘Besides what?’ he prompted.

  ‘I’m not sure about this guy who does woodcarvings. He sounds, well, a bit arrogant. Maybe I’m reading that into his emails unfairly, but his work isn’t charming; it seems distinctly spiteful to me. His carvings aren’t enjoying or celebrating human and animal frailties; they’re caricatures twisting a nasty screw into them. And yet he’s a brilliant carver. So I can’t make up my mind.’

  After a thoughtful pause, she added, ‘What I really wanted was to find a potter, and I even found a small kiln that hires out firing time. Pottery would give us lots of smaller pieces to sell, don’t you think? But I’m still not sure. It might just add complications, and none of the potters who’ve applied so far seem special enough. I’ve got one coming and have asked him to bring a couple of ideas for pieces that aren’t just tourist trash.’

  She grinned at him. ‘I didn’t call it “trash” of course, but I think he’ll get the idea.’

  ‘Well, you’ll not only have me but Elise at the interviews. She’s a shrewd old bird. I doubt anyone will be able to pull the wool over her eyes.’

  Nell nodded and stretched. ‘Let’s adjourn to the sitting room and open a bottle of wine.’

  ‘I’m going to be working on a project tonight. It came in just before Stacy rang. So no alcohol for me, I’m afraid. But I’ll pour you a glass, if you like.’

  ‘No, don’t bother. It’s much nicer to share a drink. Do you have to start work straight away?’

  ‘I’ve time for a coffee.’

  ‘You’re on.’

  They walked into the kitchen arm in arm, chatted for a few minutes, then he vanished into his office. His IT troubleshooting was in de
mand and he was charging much more for his time these days, thanks to her business input. But she missed him when they didn’t sleep together.

  Chapter Three

  Emil found the company’s branch office in Sexton Bassett deserted, with a ‘Closed’ sign on the door. He knocked on it good and hard, but there was no answer. This surprised him, because it was only mid afternoon and the office should be open, and anyway, his visit was expected.

  He used his master key to get inside and was horrified to find George Turrell lying unconscious on the floor in the back room, sprawled next to a table with an untouched meal set out on it. The poor man must have been lying there for a while as the food looked well dried out.

  Emil knelt down quickly beside him, and to his relief found a faint, erratic pulse. There were no signs of violence so he had to assume it was a heart attack or stroke.

  He got out his phone and dialled the emergency services, not sure what to do to help George in the meantime. The woman he spoke to said an ambulance would be there in a few minutes.

  It was only three minutes before Emil heard the siren, but it felt much longer. He let the paramedics in and they quickly got George on oxygen and whisked him away.

  He immediately got in touch with his father, asking him to get hold of George’s family. Then he made sure everything was locked up and followed the paramedics’ directions to the local hospital. He was annoyed to find he had to pay to park there, even with an emergency to follow up. Still fuming at this, he hurried inside the building.

  His phone vibrated and he found a message from his father. George’s daughter is on her way to the hospital. She’ll be there in about ten minutes.

  He sent a quick text asking for her name, but received no reply so could only tell the nurse at A & E reception that Mr Turrell’s daughter was on the way.

  Exactly eleven minutes passed before a woman ran into the A & E, paused for a moment to get her bearings, then rushed across to the desk. ‘My father’s been brought in – George Turrell.’

  Emil went across to join her. ‘I’m Emil Kinnaird. I’m the one who found George.’

  ‘Mmm.’ All her attention was on the receptionist and she didn’t even turn to look at Emil, let alone give him her name.

  ‘Your father’s undergoing some tests at the moment, Ms Turrell. Could I please get some details while we’re waiting to hear from the doctors?’

  ‘Can I just see him?’

  ‘Not till the doctors say it’s all right. They’re still working on him.’

  The woman, who was about Emil’s own age, sagged against the counter, answering the questions and glancing occasionally towards the doors beyond the reception desk, through which people whose clothing identified them as working there were coming and going.

  Ms Turrell had such utter concentration on what the receptionist was saying that Emil could only suppose she loved her father dearly. He waited for her attention, studying her. She was tall for a woman, nearly six foot, he’d guess, with a mass of gorgeous chestnut hair, tied back any old how. Her glasses kept slipping down her nose and she kept pushing them back impatiently. Why didn’t she have them adjusted, for goodness’ sake?

  ‘Thank you, Ms Turrell. That’ll be all for now. If you’ll just take one of those seats, I’ll call you when there’s any news.’ The receptionist indicated a small group of chairs separate from the rest of the waiting area.

  Emil hesitated, then followed her across, ignoring the scowl she gave him as if to tell him to go away. ‘I’m Emil Kinnaird. Your father worked for our company.’

  ‘Did he?’ She didn’t seem interested in a conversation of any sort.

  ‘Can I get you a coffee or something?’

  ‘No, thanks.’

  He took a seat beside her. ‘Had your father been ill?’

  But she was frowning into space, so he had to repeat the question.

  ‘What? How should I know? I haven’t seen him for a couple of years.’

  ‘But head office told me you’re his next of kin.’

  ‘That doesn’t mean we get on, just that we have a blood link.’

  ‘What about your mother?’

  ‘She’s overseas and they’ve been divorced for ages, don’t communicate. She’s remarried.’ She looked at her watch. ‘I can’t stay much longer. I have to pick up my son from after-school care.’

  He was trying to work through these relationships. ‘Can’t his father do that?’

  ‘He could if he were still around. Look, I don’t want to chat or give you my life history. I just need to make sure my father’s all right. There’s simply no one else who can deal with it. Then I’ll go and pick up my son.’

  Emil held up his hands in a surrendering gesture. ‘Only trying to help.’

  But she was on her phone, waiting to be connected, foot tapping impatiently.

  What an annoying female. He was about to leave her to it when the woman on reception came across. ‘The doctor would like a word with you about your father.’

  Emil hesitated, but something about the way the woman spoke and looked at his companion sounded ominous so he followed them across.

  The doctor looked up as they entered the small room, took a deep breath and said gently, ‘Please sit down.’

  ‘Just tell me,’ the woman said sharply.

  ‘I’m afraid it’s bad news, Ms Turrell. We couldn’t save your father. He had a massive stroke just after he got here and although we have him on life support, he’s lost his brain function.’

  ‘You mean, he’s dead?’

  ‘Brain dead, I’m afraid.’

  ‘You’re sure of that?’

  ‘Yes. Utterly positive.’

  Ms Turrell sat there looking stunned, then tears welled in her eyes. ‘Oh, hell. What am I going to do?’

  The doctor looked at Emil questioningly.

  ‘My company employed her father,’ he said quietly. He went across to sit on the chair next to Ms Turrell. ‘What can I do to help?’

  ‘I don’t know. I’ve never had anything to do with death before. And there’s still Louis to pick up.’ She looked at her watch. ‘They charge extra if you’re late.’

  ‘Shall I pick him up for you or is there a friend who could do that?’

  ‘They won’t let him go off with a stranger. I’d better go and fetch him myself.’ She looked at the doctor. ‘I’ll have to come back to deal with whatever has to be done. My son’s only seven, so I can’t leave him waiting.’

  ‘That’s all right. We’ll make sure there’s a patient affairs officer available to go through what’s needed with you when you get back. How long will you be?’

  ‘About an hour.’ Ms Turrell left without even a glance in Emil’s direction.

  He followed her outside, thinking that she had to be one of the rudest people he’d ever met.

  Then, even as he watched, she stopped dead and leant against the nearest car, shaking. Reaction must have set in. Oh, hell! He couldn’t leave her like that, however rude she was.

  He hurried across to her. ‘Where’s your car? I’ll help you to it.’

  She looked at him, still looking wobbly. ‘Not a car. It’s a bicycle.’

  As she spoke it began to rain, a few drops here and there, and suddenly a downpour.

  He tugged her arm. ‘Come and shelter in my car till you feel steadier.’

  And she let him guide her to it, which said something about her present state of mind, given her earlier abruptness.

  Abbie wiped the raindrops from her face and took a few deep breaths. ‘Sorry. I’ll be all right in a minute.’

  ‘No worries. I’m not in a hurry to go anywhere.’

  ‘I am.’ She glanced down at her watch, then outside at the weather, bracing herself visibly. ‘A bit of rain won’t kill me.’

  As she was about to get out of the car, he laid a hand on her arm to stop her. ‘We could leave your bicycle here, and I could drive you wherever it is, and you could pick up the bike later.’

 
; She looked at him suspiciously. ‘Why would you do that?’

  ‘To help a fellow human being. And also because your father worked for us and was well thought of by my father, so if we can help you in any way now, we will. Which bike is yours?’

  She studied his face, then sagged back and pointed. ‘It’s the end one in that rack, but we can leave it there, it has a good combination lock.’

  He helped her into the front passenger seat and got into the driving seat.

  ‘Thank you.’

  ‘You’re welcome. Do you have a first name or do you prefer to be called Ms Turrell?’

  ‘Abbie.’

  ‘And I’m Emil, in case you didn’t notice last time I introduced myself.’

  She nodded, but clearly she still wasn’t interested in making conversation. Well, her father had just died, he had to remember that.

  ‘Where’s the school? I’ll take you there, then drive you and your son home again. Or back to the hospital. Whichever you prefer.’

  ‘If you could take us home, I’ll be able to pick up my own car. It isn’t far.’

  In spite of the seriousness of the situation, he couldn’t help being amused at how grudgingly she had accepted his offer. He hoped he hadn’t betrayed this reaction.

  When she came out of the school, Abbie was accompanied by a lad wheeling a shabby-looking bike and talking non-stop. Emil got out of the car and let the boy help him stow the bike, then drove them home.

  ‘You’ll be all right?’ he asked as he pulled up. ‘Here. Take my card. If there’s anything else we can do to help, you’ve only to ask.’

  ‘Thank you. You’ve been very kind.’

  But as she wheeled away the bike she didn’t turn to wave goodbye. The boy did and Emil returned the gesture.

  That was one uptight woman.

  But very attractive, or at least she would be if she ever smiled.

  Then he got annoyed at himself for thinking that way. She’d just lost her father. Why on earth should he expect her to smile?

  Only she said she hadn’t seen George for two years. They mustn’t have got on. But if that was the case, why was she so upset?