A Body in Seaview Grange by Dee MacDonald (jenna bush book club TXT) 📗

At that very moment Angie and Fergal came into the pub. They waved, got their drinks and took themselves off to a quiet corner.

‘He’s got some explaining to do,’ Kate said to no one in particular.

It was now two weeks since Edina’s death and Kate hoped that the police were making more headway than she was, but doubted it. As she left work, her thoughts turned to Angie. What was Fergal playing at? She hadn’t had the opportunity to ask her sister what had happened yesterday, but when she got home that was overshadowed by a phone call Angie had just received.

‘Apparently, Maman is on her last legs,’ Angie said. ‘That was Paul, my brother-in-law, on the phone.’

Maman was Angie’s ancient mother-in-law who was French, and had been living as a recluse in Essonne, near Paris, for the past forty years. She must be at least ninety, Kate reckoned.

‘The old vache is eighty-nine,’ Angie continued, ‘and Paul says she’s only got a few days left.’

Maman had married an Englishman some sixty-five years earlier and decamped, much against her will, to leafy Surrey. She’d had two sons, Paul, who was the older, and George, Angie’s late husband. When her own husband had died, Maman shot back to France and rarely crossed the Channel again. Angie and George had made an annual pilgrimage to visit her, but since George’s death Angie had only visited her once as far as Kate could remember. Angie’s son, Jeremy, lived and worked in Sweden and had made the trip with his Swedish wife and two boys every couple of years, not so much on account of Maman’s great charm but more on account of her very considerable bank balance.

‘Will you go over there?’ Kate asked.

Angie wrinkled her nose. ‘Not much point if she’s at death’s door but I’ll have to go to the funeral, I suppose. Why do all these dramas happen at once?’

‘Talking of which…’ Kate looked at her.

‘Yes, Fergal,’ said Angie. ‘Oh Kate, he’s absolutely broke! You know his wife emptied their bank account and then went off to the States? This was back in Ireland, of course, and at the same time some friend had advised him to invest what little money he had left in some fancy scheme or other which, wouldn’t you know, crashed. He’d lost everything but, fortunately, he had no kids, so no ties, and he decided to head for London – which he hated. So he took to the road and ended up in Plymouth which, for some reason, he liked. Says he needs to be close to the sea.’

‘So what happened in Plymouth?’

‘He got a job valeting cars, and found some cheap lodgings somewhere, which he described as a flea-infested slum. Then he heard that this company were looking for salespeople to flog their cards and things. He’s got the gift of the gab, as you know, so he was offered the job. And, even better, although it was part-time, it came with a car. Then he heard about Raleigh Park where he could buy a cheap caravan on the never-never, and that’s what he’s doing. He’s continued with the odd day of car valeting, and spent all his free time familiarising himself with Plymouth and the surrounding area so he can do some minicab driving when he doesn’t have anything else on. He works his fingers to the bone, you know.’

‘Why didn’t he tell you all this when you first met him?’ Kate asked.

‘He was afraid I wouldn’t want to go out with him. He seems to think we’re rather refined ladies’ – here she snorted – ‘because we’ve got a nice cottage and all that, and he was afraid I’d think he was a layabout.’

‘Well, he certainly doesn’t sit around, does he?’

‘No, he doesn’t. He’s got three jobs and often he gets offered an extra day doing valeting or minicabbing and that’s when he doesn’t show up here at the weekend.’

‘He should, of course, have told you all this when you first met him,’ Kate remarked.

‘Yes, I suppose he should but, like I told you, he thought it would put me off him.’

‘And has it put you off him?’ Kate asked.

‘Not really,’ Angie said. ‘I actually admire him for trying to get back on his feet. And, let’s face it, he’s very fanciable!’

Kate grinned. ‘So, that’s all right then?’

‘Yes, here’s hoping,’ said Angie.

Nevertheless, shortly afterwards, Angie came off her phone and swore under her breath. ‘Fergal can’t come up this weekend because he’s been offered some minicabbing and he can’t afford to turn it down.’

‘Doesn’t he get paid enough for doing his selling?’ Kate asked.

‘Yes, but a lot of it’s on commission and he’s trying to get some money together. And pay for the caravan, of course.’

‘Then maybe you should spend the weekend at his caravan?’ Kate suggested. ‘At least you’d be together when he’s finished work.’

There was silence for a moment.

Then Angie cleared her throat. ‘I wondered,’ she said slowly, ‘if maybe he could move in here for a little while?’

‘Move in here?’ Kate asked in horror. ‘Most definitely not! What about all the jobs he does? And you know what we agreed when we bought this place: that male friends were welcome and OK for an occasional night if we ever got friendly with anyone of the opposite sex again. But moving in? No, Angie.’

‘Not even for a few weeks?’ Angie whined.

‘And then what? Where might he be going? It could turn into months, years even – no way!’

‘I knew you wouldn’t agree,’ Angie snapped.

‘So why did you ask then?’

Angie didn’t reply but stomped into the kitchen where Kate could hear her breathing heavily as she noisily poured herself a gin.

Later she related the incident to Woody on her phone. ‘Was I being mean?’ she asked anxiously.

‘Not at all,’ he replied. ‘After all, you hardly know the guy and he might be there forever – squatters’