Monica thanked him and balanced the options. Although she now had the responsibility for each case, the new leader couldn’t help wondering what Lexington would do. ‘I think we try both,’ she said. ‘At least for a month to six weeks. We’ll review it at the end of August to see how much progress has been made with Tiffany – that’s unless there’s a breakthrough before that. In the meantime, Terry and David, perhaps you could work on plan B in terms of locks, air vents and the like. I’ll acquire the carbon monoxide if someone else could please get hold of the oxygen.’ Chris and Anna both raised hands containing a cookie. ‘And Graham and Owen, in the course of your observation of the house and its surroundings, could you please undertake a risk assessment as far as possible, please. We need to ensure that only the potentially guilty are put in danger.’

  Before they left the house, Belinda tentatively asked whether she could help Team Veronica on Tiffany-watch. ‘I need something to occupy my time at the moment,’ she explained quietly. The linguist drew Monica into a huddle with Veronica and Catherine and explained that her husband, Malcolm, had entered the final stages of his dementia and had become less aggressive and more childlike. As a result, Belinda had resumed visits to him in the care home but seeing his deterioration was taking its toll. ‘I just think that if I can be more useful in this case, it’ll take my mind off that a bit,’ she explained. Veronica gave her a hug and said that not only would she be welcome to help but that the three of them should organise some fun outings as well. Belinda noticeably rallied, albeit tearfully.

  ‘Are you sure you’re okay?’ Monica asked, also giving her a friendly squeeze.

  ‘I will be,’ said Belinda. ‘It’s the end bit now. They aren’t sure whether it’ll be days or weeks or maybe a few months but I feel I should be there for him when the time comes.’

  ‘It’s not the easiest of cases,’ said Thomas as they squeezed carefully through the crowds of locals and tourists to escape the flower market.

  ‘It never is,’ replied Monica who had fallen in love with some long-stemmed roses with white petals fringed with vibrant pink. Thomas, in another burst of romance, had bought the entire remaining stock of them amounting to thirty-eight blooms and was now almost constantly blushing at the admiring looks of others as he carried the huge bunch through the throng with Monica holding on to the back pocket of his jeans with one hand and a Saturday newspaper in the other.

  They surfaced from the main ocean of people into slightly calmer waters, flagged a passing cab and set off for St John’s Wood.

  ‘Someone’s got the love bug,’ said the grey-haired taxi driver with a chuckle. ‘If I came home to my missus with them roses, she’d be flabbergasted. She might even give me a kiss.’

  Monica smiled. ‘I’m sure a lovely man like you doesn’t need roses to get a kiss from his wife.’ The cabbie laughed, a loud, throaty chortle which reminded both passengers of their friend. ‘It’s a bit of a long shot but do you happen to know a taxi driver named Martin Francis? He’s a friend of ours. Retired now although he still drives his cab around the place.’

  The driver’s face brightened as if illuminated by footlights. ‘Martin? Of course I do. Such a beautiful, beautiful man. Always so helpful, especially when I was starting out. I’ve only been doing this twenty years. Since I left the army aged forty. Martin was a godsend. Always looked out for me in those early years. I ain’t seen him for a while though. Friend of yours, you say? What a small world. What he’s up to these days? Keeping out of trouble, I hope.’

  Monica was already making calculations in her head so Thomas explained, within the parameters of what was sensible, that the cabbie was indeed keeping fit and keeping busy and had recently joined a gym. ‘What’s your name, if I may ask?’ said Monica. ‘I’ll tell him we’ve met you.’ They had stopped at a traffic light by the hotel at King’s Cross which inspired her to reach for Thomas’s hand and give it an affectionate squeeze.

  ‘John Bailey, at your service,’ he said. ‘Captain John Bailey if we’re being precise. Royal Regiment of Fusiliers.’

  ‘I’m Monica Lodhia and this is Thomas Quinn. We’re pleased to meet you, Captain Bailey.’ She paused and looked out of the window as the hotel sailed by. ‘Purely out of interest, any plans to retire?’

  Ten minutes later, Monica was standing on the pavement outside St John’s Wood while Thomas paid the taxi fare. ‘What time do you finish today, John?’ The cabbie said that she and Thomas would be his last passengers of the day as he had started work at four in the morning and he had to get home to Cricklewood for his late Saturday lunch. His wife, Sandra, was a fantastic cook, especially her roasts. ‘Well, I think you and Sandra deserve an evening to remember.’

  She extracted six of the roses and carefully wrapped them in the superfluous business pages of the newspaper. ‘These are for you and Sandra.’ She grinned. ‘And we hope we see you again some day. I personally also hope you get that kiss.’

  John Bailey, after a brief attempt at polite refusal, took Monica’s floral gift and placed it carefully on his passenger seat. ‘I can’t thank you enough.’ He winked. ‘You never know, I might even get more than a kiss. Send my best to Martin.’ He switched off his orange light and drove off towards the north as Thomas and Monica waved from the bottom of their steps.

  ‘I know what you’re thinking.’ Thomas beamed as he watched John Bailey’s taxi disappear out of view.

  Monica retrieved her door key from her shoulder bag and turned it in the lock. ‘Always best to think ahead,’ she purred.

  27

  ‘Are you admiring my seventy-year-old arse, Thomas Quinn?’

  Monica had pulled on and half-buttoned one of Thomas’s shirts after some blissful and leisurely birthday morning sex and was on her way out of the bedroom to make coffee. Thomas had offered to do so but she was already en route before he’d managed to gather the required energy. She half-turned with a radiant smile, expectant of an answer. ‘I am,’ he replied. ‘And I can categorically state after careful analysis that, in a subtle yet definitive way, it is an improvement on your sixty-nine-year-old arse from yesterday.’ Monica’s grin widened further and she blew him a kiss which he pretended to catch, reaching to his right and almost toppling out of bed.

  ‘I shall return with coffee,’ she announced, ‘and also an idea I’d like to run past you. Something I’ve been thinking about for a couple of days.’

  Thomas watched as she vanished down the short corridor to the open-plan kitchen-living area. He rearranged himself puppylike into the plump, white pillows in readiness for her return as the sounds and then smells of fresh coffee permeated the apartment. What idea could Monica be considering? Could it be something involving the two of them or The Twelve or something else entirely? He couldn’t suppress the nagging feeling that Monica might ask him to marry her. It was just the kind of thing she would consider doing and, if he was honest, although they’d only been together since Christmas, the thought had also crossed his mind once or twice. Neither of them were getting any younger and the thought of a close companion in later life was immensely appealing. Maybe the image of Beryl and Roger together in their final days had given Monica some inspiration.

  Thomas tried to dismiss the thought from his mind, not because it was troubling but because he felt sure that it was more likely that Monica’s idea was Twelve-related. He reached over to a bedside table to retrieve his phone and find something to distract himself. He scrolled through social media, a whirlwind catalogue of news stories, vintage sports clips and pictures of cats. A distant, all-powerful algorithm had clearly decided where Thomas’s interests lay. Maybe Monica was thinking of getting a cat, he pondered, although this only succeeded in resurrecting the idea of marriage in his musings.

  Monica returned barefoot with a mug in each hand. She set one down beside Thomas and then paced round the bed and placed her own on the opposite bedside table before climbing back into bed for a cuddle. ‘Do you want to hear my idea?’ she whispered excitedly. ‘It’s about the future.’

  Thomas braced himself. Whether cats or wedding bells or something else entirely, he was ready.

  ‘I’ve been thinking,’ she began. ‘As leader of The Twelve, I want to do something useful. Something that helps society.’ Thomas unbraced incrementally. He felt an overwhelming sense of relief although, at the edges of this, he also detected the faintest feeling of disappointment.

  ‘Don’t we already help society? You know, with all the death and the charity donations and that.’

  Monica giggled and pulled him closer. ‘Yes, of course, but I’m thinking of something bigger. I’d like to leave a legacy. Not just a financial one, although of course I’ve made my will accordingly. I’d like future members of The Twelve to look back at Monica Lodhia’s tenure and say, “My goodness, she achieved so much”. And I’m thinking specifically about the properties we own.’

  Thomas extracted himself slightly from her embrace and reached for his coffee. He sipped it, realised it was still too hot and returned to his original position. ‘Go on.’

  Monica explained that The Twelve currently owned eighteen properties outright, dotted around London. Most had been bequeathed to them by former members dating back as far as 1885 when the east London house at which they had gathered earlier in the week was gifted by Charles Stafford, leader of the group from 1874 to 1883 and a former explorer specialising in the Middle East and western Asia. With no dependents, Stafford had stated that The Twelve could use his house for meetings after his death and his example had led to a flurry of similar property acquisitions throughout the late nineteenth and early twentieth centuries. ‘There are no mortgages,’ Monica continued, ‘and of course most of them are empty most of the time. I checked and the last time we actually used Quilter Street was just under two years ago. That’s crazy, especially at a time when I’m constantly hearing about housing shortages and people like nurses and junior doctors unable to afford their rents and having to commute for hours to get to work.’

  Thomas made another attempt at his coffee, this time with more success. ‘I think I know where this might be going,’ he said with a slurp.

  ‘So what I propose is that we rent some of them out, maybe three to start with, to see how we go. We rent them to people who are most in need, like the nurses, and we charge hardly anything. We could charge nothing, of course, allowing people to live rent free but I don’t want to arouse suspicion. We wouldn’t advertise in local papers because we’d just be inundated. Instead we would have to be more subtle about it. Listen out for people who are in need; friends of friends or children of friends. Do you see?’ Thomas agreed that it sounded like common sense.

  ‘We’d have to move the art out, naturally,’ she continued, ‘but there are plenty of other places for it to go. And, of course, there are certain properties where we couldn’t make it work. Beckton, for example, because of the gold-plated bath in the garage. That would definitely arouse suspicion and, realistically, there’s nowhere else it could go. Its proximity to the main sewer and the river is vital.’ Thomas was reminded of his first evening as a member of The Twelve when he had been mildly disturbed by a WhatsApp conversation between the other eleven. The excited chatter had centred around the case of a paedophile rapist named Raymond Hunt whose body had been dissolved in an acid bath at a Twelve house in Beckton before having the plug pulled on his liquid remains.

  ‘It’s a great idea, Monica. I love it. And I love you.’

  Monica grinned. ‘I love you too,’ she said. ‘I’ll run it by the group later on. I’m thinking the house we were just in, the one in Belgravia maybe and there’s another down in Clapham that we haven’t used for yonks, largely because of Martin’s allergic reaction to most things south of the river. Is the coffee okay, darling?’ Thomas confirmed that it was now the perfect temperature to drink. ‘I’m excited about my birthday dinner tonight,’ she said, reaching for her mug.

  She had just put it to her lips when both phones pinged. A message from Graham to the group. Tiffany Storey was on the move.

  28

  Within a couple of minutes, Catherine had messaged to say that she, Veronica and Belinda had pulled on their trainers and were scampering towards the café where Tiffany always met her friend. They had briefly stopped to allow Belinda to retie an errant shoelace, conveniently providing the opportunity to text. With any luck they should beat her there by about three minutes. According to Graham, Tiffany was wearing blue jeans and a pink T-shirt; she should be fairly identifiable.

  David Latham was already on his way to the Storey house having flagged down a taxi on Willesden High Road. He texted that he should be outside within ten minutes. Graham would keep a close eye on Paul Storey, currently in his room as usual, and inform everyone of any unusual movements. Terry texted to ask if David could please take close-up photographs of any locks on the Storeys’ front door. The flurry of WhatsApp activity on his and Monica’s phones curiously reminded Thomas of wedding bells. He attempted to put the thought to the back of his mind, without success. ‘I was about to suggest a birthday shower together,’ said Monica through a sigh, waving her phone at him, ‘but I suppose we’d better see how this pans out, at least for the next hour or so.’

  Veronica’s group arrived at the café slightly out of breath and looked around to see whether there was anyone wearing a pink T-shirt. There were around a dozen tables in the main part of the café, most of them occupied. Catherine also noticed a short corridor leading past some toilets into a smaller alcove. She ventured down the corridor and found three more tables at the back of the café, two of which were occupied. At one sat a middle-aged woman with peroxide-blonde hair and a harsh expression who looked up at Catherine and gave the visual equivalent of a canine warning growl. At the other table sat a pair of college students each silently working on their laptops with headphones through which Catherine could faintly hear the staccato beats of hip-hop music.

  The ex-journalist dashed back to the front of the café where Belinda had taken a table by the door while Veronica was ordering cortados for each of them. ‘I’ll sit at the back,’ she said. ‘So we’ve got every base covered. There are three tables back there.’ Catherine took her coffee and carefully walked to the rear space where she settled into the one vacant position, ignoring the silent aggression from the lone woman and smiling at the students. She rummaged in her bag and found her headphones, plugged them into her phone and scrolled to find a podcast, ostentatiously directing the screen at the woman to indicate that, for the next half hour, the podcast would be receiving her full attention.

  At the front of the café, Belinda and Veronica watched as Tiffany arrived. She was a thin, tired-looking woman in her fifties, worn and lined from the pressure of existence. Belinda estimated she could be nearer to sixty than fifty but Tiffany’s was one of those deceptive faces which forbade an accurate age assessment. The new arrival did a quick scan of the room like a hunted animal checking the coast is clear before making a dash for safety, and then headed down the corridor towards Catherine. On seeing Veronica, Tiffany registered a momentary glimmer of bemusement before moving away. ‘Do you think she recognises me?’ the former TV presenter whispered. Belinda agreed that it was possible.

  ‘Busy in here today,’ said Tiffany angrily as she sat opposite her friend and glanced cautiously at the three other customers in close proximity.

  ‘You wanna get yourself a coffee?’ asked the friend, looking at Catherine who appeared deep in concentration with her podcast although, in reality, she had turned the sound down to almost silence. ‘These won’t bother us. They’re lost in their own little worlds.’

  Tiffany shuffled in her seat. ‘I won’t, if you don’t mind,’ she said. ‘I can’t stay. He’s not having his best day today so I need to get back. I’ll just take what we need if it’s all the same to you.’

  ‘Fair enough,’ said the friend, emotionlessly. She reached into her bag and pulled out a regular-sized envelope which she passed to Tiffany under the table. ‘Same as usual. Tony sends his best.’ Tiffany took the envelope, folded it and pushed it uneasily into her jeans pocket before standing up which allowed her to push it further down.

  ‘Thanks,’ she said, turning back towards the front of the café. ‘See you in two weeks.’

  ‘I’ll be here. Take care.’

  Tiffany walked at speed back down the corridor towards Belinda and Veronica who both looked up at the same time. Veronica hoped that the woman would say something, just to be able to begin some sort of conversation, but she was disappointed. Tiffany, in her pink T-shirt, hurried out of the café as if scared by something. ‘Flying visit,’ said Belinda with a frown.

  Just under a mile away, David had arrived at the door to the Storey house. I’m here, he texted. Can I get an update of the positions of Paul and Tiffany please. Graham responded to confirm that Paul remained in his room. Veronica texted to alert him that Tiffany had left the café. And she’s walking fast. Assuming she’s headed straight back, you’ve got about seven or eight minutes to be safe.

  Okay, this won’t take long, thought the plumber. He texted to ask Terry whether he was ready and the locksmith confirmed that he was indeed awaiting photographs to assist with the next part of the case. He’d been baking a ginger cake but it didn’t need to come out of the oven for a while. It was, nonetheless, making his entire house smell delicious.

  David brought his phone up to the Storeys’ single lock and took three pictures plus a video for good measure. Then he walked round the side of the house, photographing the various air vents and any other structural anomalies which might prove useful, before retreating to his usual observation point in the cemetery.

  Tiffany’s back, texted Graham from his bedroom a couple of minutes later as he watched the woman quickly open her door and then saw her infra-red ghost speed upstairs to where the image of Paul was still horizontal on his bed.

 

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