The Loophole Page 6

  Belinda picked up the glass with both hands, Dorothy helped her, and water slopped as she raised it to her lips. ‘Do you live on the camp?’

  She shook her head. ‘In Orford.’

  ‘Did you drive here this morning?’

  Belinda nodded.

  ‘I can drive you back, if you’ll trust me with your car. I am insured to drive other vehicles. I can get Stephen to pick me up later. Shall we do that?’

  Belinda nodded, either unable or unwilling to string a sentence together. There were voices in the reception area. She went out; Sally was back, fussing around Cindy, making baby noises.

  ‘Sally, I’m taking Miss Tweedie home; Mr Stephen Salter will be here shortly to take Cindy to the doctors. Please give Mr Salter Miss Tweedie’s address -you do have it? Good. Tell him to pick me up there. You’re to hold the fort until I get back. Phone Mr Sam Salter and say I will not be back for lunch. I will stay here to help you until the office closes.’

  Sally gawped at her.

  ‘I’ll say that again. Make some notes in case you forget anything.’ She looked over Sally’s shoulder as she wrote on a pad. ‘Good, now you had better help me get Miss Tweedie to the car.’ She lowered her voice. ‘Does she always react like that when she sees blood?’

  Sally leant towards her. ‘Ooh, she’s ever so sensitive; if you even mention the word b-l-o-o-d,’ she whispered, ‘she starts to wobble, and she can’t bear to see anything harmed. I swatted a wasp once, and she went green.’

  What a milksop! Probably too young to be involved in the war. No time for sensitive souls then.

  ‘Where is Miss Tweedie’s car? I’ll drive it to the front of reception.’

  Sally took her outside and pointed towards the car park. ‘That one there, the pale blue one.’

  ‘The Ford Escort?’ Pale blue -well, better than pink. Dorothy returned to Belinda and took the car keys from her handbag. She hurried to the car, but had to adjust the driver’s seat, as she didn’t quite have Belinda’s girth, thank goodness. She found first gear difficult to engage and bumped her way to the front of reception.

  ‘Take Belinda’s left arm, Sally.’ Luckily, she looked like a strong girl. ‘Careful down the steps.’ They manoeuvred her into the passenger seat. ‘Thank you, Sally. See you later.’

  She slid into the driving seat. ‘Whereabouts in Orford do you live, Belinda?’

  ‘Daphne Road,’ she whispered, her chin resting on her chest.

  ‘Can you give me directions?’

  ‘You know the church?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Go past the church and head for the quay. At the end of Church Street turn left; that’s Daphne Road. I’m the last cottage on the left, just before Doctor’s Drift.’

  ‘Doctor’s Drift?’

  ‘It’s a lane, it leads to the river. I’ll tell you when we get there.’

  Dorothy found first gear more easily this time and, driving carefully, afraid Belinda might keel over, she made their way from the camp and turned right into Ipswich Road, then through Front Street and past the church. She turned when she saw the sign: Daphne Road. The name suited Belinda, a quivering mass of pale pink, like a freshly turned-out blancmange.

  Belinda pointed to a semi-detached cottage; there was a small front garden with a standard pink rose surrounded by lavender bushes. The front door was freshly painted, dark blue, thank goodness, with a well-polished brass letter-box and door handle. There was a side path with a tall, wooden gate.

  ‘If you give me your key, Belinda, I’ll open the door before you get out of the car. Don’t try and move until I come back.’ She hoped Belinda didn’t collapse again; she didn’t fancy heaving that weight round for a second time. The key turned smoothly in the Yale lock; beyond was a small hall with a door on either side and one at the end, to the left of a staircase. Where should she put Belinda? She opened the door to the left, it was a sitting room furnished with a pink velour three-piece suite, sideboard, a television on a stand, and a nest of three tables. She turned back to the car and helped Belinda up the brick path, into the hall, Belinda leaning heavily on her, until she slumped into an armchair.

  Belinda leant back, her colour improving, but still breathing rapidly.

  ‘Try to take a few slow, deep breaths, Belinda. You’re looking better. My, that was a nasty turn. Would you like me to get you a glass of water? Or shall I make you some tea?’ This was an excellent opportunity to have a little snoop, although if Belinda was this squeamish, fainting at the sight of blood, and had the habdabs when a wasp was swatted, she didn’t think she was up to doing away with two women. Still, you never know, and it was good practise.

  ‘Tea, please,’ Belinda whispered. ‘The tea’s in—’

  ‘Don’t worry, I’ll find everything. You just rest, and take some deep, slow breaths. Three sugars?’

  Belinda nodded. ‘Yes—’

  Dorothy scurried to what she presumed was the kitchen, before Belinda could get out another word.

  The door to the left of the stairs led into a large, airy kitchen, the width of the house; big enough for a pine table and four chairs as well as all the usual kitchen stuff. The sink was beneath a window, overlooking the back garden. To the right of the sink was an electric kettle and teapot. She found the caddy -tea-bags -she sniffed, filled the kettle, peeped round the door and listened. Belinda was following instructions.

  As quietly as possible she began to open cupboards and drawers, looking for anything unusual or suspicious. Everything seemed in order: it was a well-stocked and kept kitchen. Very boring. She made the tea in the pot and opened the fridge, looking for the milk. There was a half-empty bottle of full cream. She pulled a face -not the best for tea. Next to it, in the fridge’s door-shelf, were two bottles of wine, both unopened. Was Belinda expecting company? Or was she a secret toper? Bit unfair, she thought, as she, herself, was partial to a gin and tonic before dinner and a glass of red with a good steak. Still?

  When she went back Belinda was sitting upright, looking brighter.

  ‘Oh, Dorothy, you’ve been so kind. I can’t thank you enough. What must you think of me? I can’t help it. When I saw Cindy...’ She started to pale again.

  Dorothy pulled out one of the tables from the nest, placed it next to Belinda’s chair, and put the cup and saucer down on it. She hoped there wasn’t going to be a re-run.

  ‘Now, Belinda, try not to think about it. I’m pleased I could help. Here, drink some tea. Always the best panacea for most troubles, I find.’

  Belinda looked at her blankly, took the tea and with her little finger sticking out at an angle, raised the cup to her lips and took small sips, reminding Dorothy of a goldfish.

  ‘Have you a neighbour I could contact, so they could keep an eye on you until you feel better?’

  Belinda shook her head. ‘The next-door house is a holiday cottage and it’s empty at the moment. I feel much better now. I’d rather you didn’t tell anyone else. I feel so silly acting like that. You won’t tell Mr Salter, will you?’

  ‘I’m afraid he’ll know already. Stephen Salter is coming to pick me up soon. I’m sorry, I presumed everyone knew about your.’

  Belinda’s face flushed, her eyes narrowing. ‘Of course, he knows, but I’d have preferred it if you hadn’t made such a fuss. I don’t want him to think I’m doing this on a regular basis.’

  So much for the heart-felt thanks. ‘So, if it happens again, you’d prefer to be left on the floor until you come to?’ As soon as the sharp words left her lips she knew she’d said the wrong thing. She’d given the kind of reply she’d make to a silly girl in the bread shop who’d whispered a derogatory remark behind a customer’s back.All her hard work getting on the right side of Belinda was wasted. Thank goodness Frank wasn’t here; she knew he hadn’t been convinced of her detecting skills. She’d tell Laurel when she saw her and ask for advice. Laurel was good with people, she’d helped Stuart and Mabel when their romance went through a sticky patch. Better try and p
ut it right, although it went against the grain, as she didn’t like the woman.

  ‘Oh, I’m sorry, Belinda, that was most unkind of me. I’ll explain to Mr Salter, say you’ve told me it hasn’t happened for years, or something like that. Will that help?’ Belinda’s lips quivered.

  Was she was upset or angry?

  ‘Very well. Yes, you can say that.’

  There was a knock on the front door.

  ‘That’s probably Stephen. Shall I bring him in? I’m sure he’s concerned for you.’

  Belinda shot up from the chair, her eyes bulging. ‘No. No. I don’t want him to see me like this.’

  She did look the worse for wear, with trails of black mascara running from her eyes and her hair flattened. ‘Please, just go back with him. I’m perfectly fine now.’ Certainly she was moving normally and seemed agitated at the thought of Stephen seeing her. She could understand if it had been Sam Salter at the door, but why Stephen?

  ‘Very well, Belinda. Will you be in tomorrow?’

  Belinda pushed back her shoulders, her ample bosom moving forward in a threatening manner. ‘I’ll be back at work as soon as I’ve washed my face and combed my hair. You won’t be there will you? You’ll have gone back to lunch at Sudbourne.’

  It won’t be just a wash and brush up, will it? It’ll be the full works: pan-stick make up, rouge and lashings of lipstick. ‘No, I’ll get Stephen to drop me off at the camp. Sally is on her own at the moment, unless Cindy’s recovered. I’ll wait until you get back.’ She hoped she’d get away before Laurel arrived at the holiday camp; Stephen Salter had arranged she’d come on Monday afternoon, when Dorothy would be back at Sudbourne Hall. Can’t be helped, she’d have to try to pretend it was their first meeting.

  Belinda’s nostrils flared. ‘Very well, but tell Mr Salter I wasn’t away long, won’t you?’

  Dorothy simpered at her. ‘Of course, my dear. Off I go. See you soon.’ She wasn’t sure if she was cut out for this undercover detective work.

  Chapter 7

  Laurel parked her Cortina in the holiday camp’s visitors’ car park and leant over to look in the passenger mirror. Mm. She’d decided more make-up than usual was required for her new role: blue eyeshadow, two coats of mascara and red lipstick. What would Dorothy and Frank think? She suspected Dorothy would get out her handkerchief, spit on it, and attack her face, like her mother used to when she was a child with a mucky face. Thank goodness she wouldn’t see Dorothy today as she was only working mornings in the office.

  She slid out of the car and, as she walked to reception, pulled at the hem of her mini-dress. She was pleased she’d practised walking in her new wedge-heeled sandals; they were surprisingly comfortable and gave her another two inches -as if she needed it! She’d enjoyed altering her appearance, and Stuart’s wolf-whistle, when she paraded before him and Mabel, had given her confidence she could pull off her undercover role.

  ‘Hello, doll!’ said one of two youths, who were lounging outside the reception office, studying a board of staff photographs. Not much over eighteen, she reckoned.

  Jolly good, it was working. She smiled at them as they goggled at her legs.

  The cheeky one rushed to open the door.

  ‘Thank you.’

  ‘My pleasure, doll. You staying here?’

  ‘It depends.’

  He smoothed back his hair. ‘On what? I can give you a good time, doll.’

  This was becoming tedious; she hoped she wasn’t going to spend too much time fending off pimply youths with hair smelling of grease. She drew herself up to her full five feet eleven, plus wedges, looked down at him and gave him her withering teacher’s stare. ‘I don’t think so, sonny. I don’t do cradle snatching.’

  The youth reddened, tossed his head, let the door close, and swaggered back to his mate. ‘Bit past it,’ he said.

  She didn’t know whether to laugh or pick him up by the collar of his jacket and give him a good shake. She did neither, opened the door herself and went into reception. She sniffed -Dettol. Not the best welcoming smell. A young couple were at the desk talking to someone she couldn’t see.

  ‘We’d like to book a tennis court for four. Is that all right?’ the woman said.

  ‘Let me see. I’m afraid all the courts are booked for four. There is one at four thirty. Would that do?’

  No! She wasn’t supposed to be here. It was Dorothy’s voice. What’s happened? Should she leave? Too late, the couple were turning towards her, the man putting his arm round the girl’s shoulder.

  She moved towards the desk. Dorothy raised a finger to her lips and jerked her head toward an open door behind her. She nodded back.

  ‘Can I help you?’

  ‘I hope so. My name is Laurel Bowman. I’ve just arrived. I’m a new member of staff. I was told to report to reception and ask for Miss Tweedie. Are you Miss Tweedie?’

  Dorothy winked. ‘No, I’m Miss Piff. Miss Tweedie has been taken ill, I’m afraid. I’ve only started work here today, so, I’ll ask Sally,’ she thumbed towards the office, ‘what we should do next. Excuse me.’

  There was a muted conversation and Dorothy reappeared. ‘Sally is phoning Miss Minnikin; she’s in charge of the chalets. She’ll be over directly to take you to your chalet and then she’ll arrange for you to meet Mr Frost who is charge of entertainments.’

  ‘Thank you, Miss Piff. Will I have a chalet near you?’

  Dorothy raised her eyebrows. ‘No. I’m a cousin of Mr Salter, the owner of the camp; I’m helping out here,’ she waved a hand round reception in a royal gesture, ‘until Mr Salter has made a new appointment. I’m staying with him at Sudbourne Hall.’

  Laurel pinched her lips together. Dorothy was playing her role to perfection! ‘I’m sorry, I didn’t realise your position.’

  ‘Quite all right, Miss Bowman. Can I offer you a cup of tea or coffee?’

  Laurel refused and sat down on one of the chairs by the wall. Miss Minnikin was one of the suspects, but no one was attached to her, so this would be a good opportunity to make an assessment of her character.

  Dorothy ignored her and busied herself at the desk, officiously tidying piles of brochures, rearranging pamphlets and pulling out drawers.

  Laurel realised she was hunching her shoulders and tried to relax, taking several deep breaths. The reception door opened and a large figure blocked out the sunlight.

  Dorothy looked up. ‘Miss Minnikin? Hello, I’m Dorothy Piff, Mr Salter’s cousin. Helping out in the office.’

  The large woman, with a height that matched Laurel’s in her wedges, heavily built, with short, dark hair, reached across the desk and shook Dorothy’s hand. ‘Pleased to meet you, Miss Piff.’

  Miss Minnikin! More like Miss Gigantikin!

  Dorothy pointed towards her. ‘Miss Bowman is waiting for you.’

  Miss Minnikin turned. Her face was as arresting as her body: brown eyes beneath strong eyebrows, a long fleshy nose and thin lips. Laurel decided she’d try and keep on the right side of Miss Minnikin. She stood up.

  The handshake was firm, but not fierce and the intimidating face lightened as she smiled warmly at Laurel. ‘Pleased to meet you, Miss Bowman. Good to have another tall woman on the staff.’

  As they walked towards Laurel’s car Miss Minnikin chatted about the lovely weather.

  ‘Have you been at the camp long, Miss Minnikin?’

  ‘Do call me Nellie. My name’s Eleanor, but everyone calls me Nellie. I’ve been here since the camp opened, and I’ve worked for Sam Salter for a number of years; we go back a long way.’

  Interesting. ‘Really? Please call me Laurel.’ Better not show too much interest straight away, though it was tempting; how far back did their relationship go? To when he was a reckless youth and mixed with criminals?

  She drove them to the staff car park and Nellie helped her with her luggage, easily carrying two heavy suitcases as though they were nothing more than two handbags. She stopped before a row of chalets situated behind a larg
e building called Southwold which, she said, housed the main dining hall.

  ‘These are the staff chalets, mostly two staff to a chalet, but I was given instructions you were to have one to yourself. There are only two vacant at the moment.’ She pointed to one at the end of the row. ‘That’s yours, but the fourth one from it is also vacant. Some man’s coming later in the week, another gardener I’m told, so if you want to see them both and choose which one you like best, that’s fine by me.’

  So, Frank was ‘some gardener’. She must remember to tell him.

  ‘I’m sure the end one will be OK.’

  Nellie produced a key, put it in the Yale lock and opened the door.

  ‘All the chalets, staff ones included, have a bathroom. It’s a big selling point.’

  It was a good-sized room, with a single bed, wardrobe, dressing table and chair, all in white-painted wood; a small table stood beneath a window and there was an armchair next to it. Nellie opened the door into the bathroom; fresh towels sat on a cork-topped stool, and there was a bath, basin and lavatory.

  ‘This is fine, Nellie. Everywhere looks very clean.’

  Nellie sniffed. ‘I make sure the chalet maids do a thorough job.’

  Laurel believed her. ‘So, you’re in charge of all the chalets? What happens if the holiday makers break something? Or if something goes wrong, like a broken switch? Do you have to deal with that as well?’

  Nellie laughed. ‘That’s nothing to do with me. I make sure the chalets are clean and the bedding and towels are changed regularly.’ She went over to the dressing table and tapped it. ‘This will have to double as a desk.’ She picked up a notepad. ‘If anything is needed, the campers fill in one of these forms and leaves it on the bed. The chalet maid checks each day when she cleans the room and brings any forms to me. I contact Jim Lovell, in charge of maintenance, and he sorts it out. Works well, even though I say it myself.’

  Mr Lovell, another suspect, but one that no one was attached to, like Nellie.

  ‘Everything seems very well organised.’

  Nellie nodded. ‘You couldn’t have a better run camp. You’ve got to give it to Sam Salter, he’s a good business man.’