smile. She worked through the little scrum around her with aplomb, flirting, teasing, tipping her head provocatively to listen to their messages and their dedications. She was a sequinned shark amongst a shoal of minnows. It was very difficult not to be impressed.
Sheila stepped closer to Dora, who was hovering, undercover, near the video section.
‘She looks a right tart,’ Sheila hissed. ‘She won’t sell a lot of that kind of thing in Fairbeach, you know. It was packed in here last week when that cookery woman came. She gave everyone bits of broccoli quiche.’
But Dora had already stepped towards the table. Catiana Moran looked up as Dora made her way to the front of the queue, and beamed, eyes glittering like bright shards of broken glass. Dora pointed towards the pile of novels stacked beside her.
‘Hello, are they going well?’ she asked unsteadily.
Her alter ego nodded. ‘Oh, yes. My books are ever so popular,’ she said in the same toffee-brown voice Dora had heard during the TV recording. ‘Have you read any of them?’ Catiana’s eyes were blue-green with tiny flecks of gold which glittered in the shop lights – she was truly beautiful.
Dora reddened as she felt Sheila approaching. ‘Yes,’ she said quietly, ‘every one of them.’
Catiana’s smile widened. ‘Oh, wonderful. Then you’re going to love the latest one. It’s really good.’
Dora took a book from the pile and slid it across the table. Behind them. Sheila sniffed as Catiana Moran opened the pages with carmine fingertips.
‘Would you like me to sign it for you?’ she purred.
Dora nodded. ‘Yes, please.’
She rolled the gold pen between her fingers. ‘Who would you like me to dedicate it to?’
‘Dora,’ Dora whispered in an undertone, ‘Dora Hall.’
Catiana whipped the pen across the fly leaf and pressed the book into Dora’s hand. ‘Enjoy,’ she murmured.
Reddening, Dora nodded and scuttled towards the cash desk. At her shoulder she could feel Sheila’s embarrassment throbbing like toothache. When Dora glanced back towards Catiana, the beautiful, predatory blonde was surrounded by a group of young men; she threw back her head and laughed as she pulled another book off the stack.
Dora laid her copy on the cash desk. The shop assistant slid it into a bag.
‘Do yer like her then?’ the woman asked, nodding towards the back of the store, as she handed Dora the change.
Dora smiled broadly. ‘Yes,’ she said softly, ‘I think I do.’
Lawrence Rawlings looked out of the window in his study. He could hear the bells of All Saints ringing in The Close. The panelled room was sparsely furnished with elegant pieces of antique furniture, so familiar that Lawrence barely noticed them. Nothing was out of place, which was how he preferred it. The spring sunlight picked out his distinctive features and then moved on to the family photographs and paintings on the wall, echoes of his past and present. Arms folded behind his back, he stretched up onto his toes. He didn’t turn round as the door opened, nor when the man he had invited settled himself into the chair on the far side of the ornate mahogany desk.
‘My family have lived in this house for seven generations,’ Lawrence said, in a voice that barely rose above a whisper – he could almost have been talking to himself. ‘We have been merchants, mayors, councillors, pillars of the establishment – centre stage in Fairbeach’s long and illustrious history.’
Behind him the man shuffled the chair closer to the desk. Lawrence paused.
‘I want you to find out everything you can about this young woman who calls herself Catiana Moran. Her real name is Lillian Bliss. I don’t need to explain the need for discretion. I want everything you can get your hands on. Is that perfectly clear?’
His guest made a noise, a low guttural sound that may or may not have been an answer.
‘There is an envelope on the desk with what details I already have, and your first cheque,’ continued Lawrence.
There were two magpies cavorting on the lawn near the orchard. One hopped up onto a low branch amongst the blossoms. Two for joy. Lawrence allowed himself a thin smile.
‘You know, my father planted that apple tree on the day I was born.’
His silent companion coughed. Lawrence Rawlings slipped his hands into the pockets of his tweed jacket and fingered the business card the man had sent with his brochure. ‘I think that will be all for the time being. I expect to hear from you soon. I’d like to make it clear that I am not used to this kind of thing; you are the first private detective I have ever felt the need to engage. Your card says Safeguard Associates. What should I call you?’
‘Milo,’ said his visitor. ‘Just call me Milo.’
When the door closed behind his visitor, Lawrence carefully opened the window and took his garden gun from the umbrella stand.
‘One for sorrow,’ he said wryly, closing one eye and taking aim. The 4.10 cracked out across the still morning. There was a flurry of feathers, black and white on the dewy grass. In The Close the five-minute bell rang. Lawrence checked his watch – he would just have time to get to Communion with his daughter Sarah, Calvin and the girls, if he hurried.
In her flat in Gunners Terrace, Dora was spooning tuna chunks onto a saucer, while something vaguely musical rattled around inside the radio. Oscar insisted she work faster, his thoughts so loud that she glared at him furiously.
‘Pack it in, I hear you, I hear you. Talk to the guys who decided tuna should be sold in second-hand submarines, it’s knackered my tin opener.’
The cat narrowed his eyes and his thoughts became unrepeatable.
Sunday mornings were quiet. Once a month Dora put flowers on an unmarked grave and then went for a girls-only lunch at Sheila’s, while her brother-in-law and their two children went fishing. On the draining board, in a milk bottle, stood a single cream rose: a fitting floral tribute.
From the office she heard the sound of the phone and hurried to get to it before the answering machine cut in.
At the far end of the line Calvin Roberts chuckled.
‘Morning, Dora. Got your message. Sorry I didn’t get back to you sooner. I’m glad you liked Catiana. I got the page proofs for One Hundred and One Hot Nights yesterday. Would you mind if I popped round for a few minutes and dropped them off?’
Dora sighed. ‘Six days shalt thou labour, Calvin. Surely a good High Church boy like you has got that tattooed somewhere significant. Haven’t you got a regular Sunday morning assignation with the Almighty?’
Calvin snorted. ‘It’s the wife who’s the God-botherer, Dora, not me. I’m firmly aligned with Mammon, and trust me she’s not tattooed, I would have noticed. So, what shall we say? Ten minutes?’
Dora sighed. ‘Calvin. It’s Sunday. I’m just about to go out for lunch.’
