Hot to Kill Page 7

  “Same, thanks, though without the paddling pool and children. Just enjoyed the garden and the sunshine with Gordon after the match. Nice and relaxing, and quiet.” She looked up at the deep blue sky. Even at just before 9 am it was a stunner; the heat was quite fierce already. “Shame to be stuck inside on a day like this, though I suppose it’s a bit cooler in there,” she said, nodding with her head towards the direction of the building they worked in. “Saturday nearly melted me like a popsicle.”

  They chatted and headed to the back door and the coolness that would envelope them both in the downstairs offices. Madeline opened the old wooden door that creaked like something in a horror movie. The whole building could do with a bit of modernisation, really; the dark downstairs offices sometimes smelled a bit damp. In winter the two women nearly half froze to death, but it was nice on a hot day.

  “I’ll make some tea, then there’s one thing I need to get out of the way first off, and that’s sort out my phone bill. They’ve added a seven-hundred-pound charge that’s not mine, and I need to get to the bottom of it, because they keep sending me reminders and I’m not paying it.”

  “Heck. And it’s a real pain dealing with companies like that,” Deidre sympathised. “Same when I had an extra charge on my electric bill by mistake. Wouldn’t listen. Drove me batty. In the end I got my son to deal with them. He had no trouble in getting it sorted – had them quivering in their boots. He can be quite cutting when he wants to be. A lawyer on your side can be quite handy sometimes.” She smiled.

  “I’ll bear that in mind, then, if I don’t have any joy.”

  Fifteen minutes later, Madeline was sitting at her desk, listening to crappy piped music once again, thrumming the fingers of her right hand on the wooden desk, making a hollow sound a bit like small galloping ponies on an old black and white movie. She’d been on hold for seven minutes already and wished she could have chosen some better music to listen to – the Death March sprang to mind. Finally, she heard a gap in the music and a real live person broke in, informed her his name was Julian and asked how could he help.

  “Julian, I’m really hoping you can help me because those that have gone before you haven’t managed it and, as a menopausal woman, I am almost at my breaking point.” May as well go with the truth in a sort of threatening way. There was silence at his end. “Are you there, Julian?” she enquired.

  “Yes, I’m still here. Just wondering how best to respond to you. I’ve some experience of what it’s like to be a menopausal woman – my mother is one. So let’s see how I can help your day get better, shall we? I’m sure you want the stress to go away.”

  Was he trying to be funny or was he empathising with her? She couldn’t quite tell but his approach was certainly different.

  “Why don’t you tell me your name and what the problem is,” he went on, “and I’ll endeavour to solve it here and now.” He sounded lovely, relaxing almost, genuine, and a little bit camp. Madeline bet his mother loved him deeply when she wasn’t raging, sweating or crying. She took a deep breath and told him the whole silly story and didn’t get worked up at all. Julian filled in occasionally with ‘ums’ and ‘aha’s’ and when she’d reached the end, he simply said, “Not a problem. I’ll put the credit through now for you.”

  “Julian, you are an angel. Thank you.” She almost wept with relief. “You’re a credit to your mother: she’s damn lucky to have such a lovely son.”

  Credit where credit is due. I can be nice when it warrants it.

  “It was my pleasure, Madeline. Now you have a nice day and enjoy the sunshine.” He clicked off and ended the call.

  Turning to Deidre, who was looking right at her, she smiled incredulously. She couldn’t believe her luck – was stunned, in fact. “Well, that was nice and easy for a change. All sorted. And after all that hassle before, why couldn’t the other imbeciles I’d spoken to earlier sort it out so simply?”

  “Well, at least it’s done and you don’t need my David to get snarky with them.”

  “You’re right there. Now I’d better get some work done before Stanley accuses me of slacking and I need a lawyer for a different reason.” She turned her attention to a rather full inbox.

  Chapter Sixteen

  Week 3

  Tuesday

  “It’s the best way, Madeline.”

  Dr. Bing was trying once again to get her to take a ‘chemical’ to help with the temperature tantrums and mood swings. She’d only gone to visit her for some cream for a skin irritation that wouldn’t settle, probably something from the garden had bothered her, and the doctor had asked how she’d been since her last visit. Well, Madeline had been a bit worked up. And on top of that, she thought the doctor, though she meant well, was beginning to sound like Rebecca, wanting her to take something for her ‘condition.’ But Madeline wanted to do it naturally, not chemically, so if she was going to get some extra help, it would be more likely from a botanist than a chemist.

  “I’m fine, really I am. I can cope with it all just as I am at the moment, though I would like some more cream, please.”

  Dr. Bing looked like she’d resigned herself to her patient being stubborn, and at the end of the day, it was her choice what she took. She tapped the keys on her keyboard to create the prescription, and Madeline filled the empty air with light conversation.

  “What a great summer we’re having — lovely sunny days. And I must say, Gordon and I have been enjoying the evenings sat out on the patio with a glass of wine. Beats the TV any day.” It was nearly true: she had been enjoying the patio, and the cooler evenings were pleasant, especially now, though Gordon still preferred the TV and the lounge.

  Dr. Bing printed out the form and handed it to Madeline with a smile. “There you go. That should do the trick. And remember what I said about the other – just let me know if you change your mind or things get worse for you. Hundreds and thousands of women get support with tablets. No need to suffer on your own.”

  Madeline smiled, took the white slip and thanked the doctor, then left the small clinical office and headed over to the pharmacy to get the cream. Her phone clock said it was 9.30 am. She needed to get a move on because the car was parked in a sixty-minute space and time up was fast approaching. Luckily the pharmacy wasn’t busy and it took only a moment for the pharmacist to stick a label on her cream. She was back out the door and heading for her car in no time.

  But her morning was about to get a bit more stressful. In the distance she could see the uniform of the traffic warden, and he was looking at her car registration and tapping it into his small handheld machine. Flummoxed, Madeline checked her phone clock again and knew she still had another 10 minutes. Why was he giving her a ticket, she wondered? Only one way to find out.

  “Morning.”

  Be nice, Madeline.

  “Morning,” he said back, keeping his head down and concentrating on his device.

  “Can I ask why you’re giving me a ticket? I still have at least ten more minutes left on the meter.”

  “That you do, Madam, but that’s not why I’m issuing you with a ticket.”

  So am I supposed to guess why, then? Stay calm, stay calm.

  “Then why the ticket?”

  He still hadn’t even looked up from his machine and that began to annoy her even more. Look what had happened to Grey Man. You can’t talk to someone and not look at them. Ask him what happens when you do that kind of thing.

  “Your wheels are over the white parking bay line, Madam, that’s why. They have to be completely inside the box, otherwise you are in effect taking up two spaces.”

  Madeline took a step back to see what he was talking about. Yes, the front wheels were a little over the white road markings, but only by a couple of inches, four at the most.

  “You’ve got to be kidding me. I’m getting a ticket for two inches over?”

  Finally he lifted his head and looked at her as he ripped the ticket from his machine. “You are indeed. Two inches over is two inches
over.” He handed her the ticket and she just stood and looked at it.

  “Whether you take it or not is of no concern to me. I’ve issued it now, so there is a record of it and I’d advise you to pay it sooner than later. It’s cheaper that way.”

  Her best glare had no effect. She was sure he got verbal abuse all the time. She snatched it from his fingers.

  “Sixty pounds?” she spluttered. But it was too late; he’d started to walk off and she was left standing at the curbside fuming with indignation. The warm sun, pleasant just a short time ago, was suddenly unbearable on her skin and beads of sweat started to roll down her cleavage, stopping only at her bra like a dam holding a trickle of a river back.

  “Bloody nitpicking little shitbag!” she shouted after him.

  The ticket found itself screwed up tightly into a ball and tossed over her shoulder. Madeline wondered if she’d be done for littering next.

  “Little shit,” she added more quietly to herself. She got into the baking oven of a car and turned it on, the air blasting her like a wind on a washing line in the desert. “Pity it’s still too early for a gin and tonic,” she muttered. “It’d go down nicely right about now.”

  She put the car in gear and headed to Sally’s, wondering if Grey Man would be in today for his lunch. Probably not.

  Chapter Seventeen

  Wednesday

  When Wednesday morning came and Madeline actually saw the whites of Des’s eyes smiling back at her as he stood by the digger in the back garden, she wasn’t sure whether to thank him for finally turning up or kick him in the nuts for being so bloody tardy and causing her more and more annoyance every day. His rugged sunburnt face told anyone who met him that he worked outdoors for a living; his shorts and work boots were another clue. Still, he looked pleasant enough, though for what Madeline wasn’t sure. Not a tall man, he looked like Joe Average. Save for the ruddy complexion. And at least he wasn’t dangling a cigarette like Sid had.

  “Better late than never, Mrs. S,” he said to her. “Better late than never.”

  Like that would make up for everything. She felt her blood start to heat up in her veins, and it wasn’t because she was having a temperature tantrum or because of the summer heat. “How dare he,” she stropped inwardly. “One, be so bloody cheery and unconcerned, and two, call me Mrs. S. No one calls me that and gets off scot-free.” A kick in the balls seemed like the best option, but she let the thought slip. She’d heard that to the untrained, it’s actually quite difficult to get the kick absolutely right on target, so she’d probably end up kicking him squarely in the thigh, which would lose its desired effect and she’d just be embarrassed. And he’d be pretty damn mad. She chose to leave it alone for the sake of her escalating blood pressure.

  “Yes, I guess so,” was all Madeline managed, but in a sarcastic tone to let him know she was pissed at him.

  “Any chance of a cuppa before I start? A nice strong one if you can, two sugars. Oh, and if there’s a spare biscuit going, that’d be grand.”

  She couldn’t believe she was hearing right, but found herself turning towards the kitchen and doing as he asked before she said something foul and unladylike. She muttered “Cheeky sod” under her breath and left it at that.

  Kicking off her gardening shoes and leaving them at the kitchen door, she flicked the kettle switch, then went to grab the mail off the front mat while waiting for it to boil. Normally the mail was mostly junk mail, and today was no different. “What a waste of trees,” she muttered. “If they banned junk mail, they wouldn’t need bloody junk mail recycling bins, now, would they?” She sorted through it to double-check for any letters mixed in, and there was one – a phone bill. And it was in a red final demand envelope. Again.

  “What the –?”

  Clenching her teeth, she shoved the rest of the junk crap into the recycle bin in the kitchen cupboard under the sink, trying not to get worked up again. What with Mr. Bloody Cheeky outside and Julian another phone company failure, she wasn’t sure who to get mad at first.

  The biscuits were in the top cupboard so she grabbed the Rich Tea, vowing they’d have to do for him. He wasn’t having her chocolate digestives, because she only had a few left until shopping again. She poured the boiling water onto the tea bags in the pot and waited for it to steep, all the while watching Des though the kitchen window. He stood surveying something or other in the distance, still not doing anything in the garden. Her nerves began to jangle again at his lack of concern for her damn pond.

  “Will I ever get to sit by it and appreciate it this summer?” she asked out loud to the window. Madeline had always wanted a pond, a few fish swimming about, some pink water lilies perhaps, even a frog or two living nearby; something nice and tranquil, a place where she could sit and read on a fancy new lounger, perhaps with a checked sun umbrella to match. But it didn’t look like that was going to happen anytime soon, not with useless Des standing with his thumbs up his bum.

  She poured the tea, grabbed a couple of biscuits from the packet and took them outside to him. He blasted her with one of his no-doubt-practiced smiles.

  “So you’ll be finally starting the hole today?” She had to make a point.

  “As soon as I’ve had me tea, I’m on to it. Won’t take long to dig that hole, I expect, and you’ll have fish swimming in it in no time.” His cheeriness was both calming and annoying at the same time, if that was possible. She didn’t need his damn cheer; she just wanted to see signs of activity before she lost her rag with him. She gave him her “better had” look, then turned briskly back to her own tea and chocolate biscuits waiting indoors.

  Sitting at the breakfast bar, she grabbed the envelope with the telephone bill and hoped it was the credit notification she’d been expecting, but deep down she knew it wasn’t. The envelope was red, after all. Madeline tore into it, only to find yet another bill, this one for just over £800.

  “I don’t sodding believe it!” she shouted into the empty kitchen. She felt a sudden surge of anger tighten in her chest. The thought of spending another forty-five minutes going round in circles on the phone listening to crappy piped music, trying to get now two bills sorted out before they eventually blacklisted her for non-payment or some such, was beginning to feel too much. The heat in her chest gripped like a strong hairy hand and she willed the feeling to pass, and quickly. It, however, had other thoughts, and wasn’t going anywhere.

  “Bollocks! Damn you!” she shouted again. She sat, seething, not really wanting to get wound up, but how could she not when faced with a dickhead outside still not digging up her garden and a dickhead at the phone company she’d soon have to try and deal with yet again. Was the world out to get her this morning, she wondered, a conspiracy? Because it certainly seemed like it was. She tried again to steady her breathing as the doctor had told her to do when she started to get uptight. It wasn’t taking much these days. Iiiiiiiin… Ooooout…. Iiiiiiiin…. Ooooout.

  Breathe, Madeline, breathe.

  She closed her eyes to help drain out the stress and heat invading her body, willing the deep breaths to work and her blood to stop hurling full speed through her veins, but she was struggling. After three whole minutes of trying, she gave up. The next best remedy Madeline had learned was scrubbing something, hard, so she filled a bucket with hot soapy water, retrieved the rubber gloves and Jif from under the sink and headed upstairs to clean the bathroom, again. Usually at the end of putting some energy into cleaning, she’d calmed down a little, but today was going to be different. After thirty minutes and a now-sparkling bathroom that Jif would be proud to feature in a daytime TV ad, she was still wound up, feeling the need to release even more pent-up pressure bubbling below the surface of her skull. Her head started to pound fiercely.

  A knock at the back door got her attention, so she went back downstairs to see Des waving through the kitchen window for her to go to the door. She groaned inwardly but went to see what he wanted anyway.

  As she opened the door, he said
, “Need to talk to you Mrs. S. Come on out and have a look.” He started walking off to the corner of the garden where his digger was idling, engine throbbing gently.

  Madeline followed him, watching his lanky gait as he walked in front. For an outdoor landscaper type of guy, he had skinny, hairy legs and knobbly knees. As they neared the corner she could see he’d dug a hole about the size of a narrow grave, about the width of the digger’s bucket and about four or five feet deep. The digger was parked up next to it, engine running, waiting patiently.

  “The ground is too hard,” Des said. “There’s so much heavy clay, and without much rain, it’s rock hard.”

  Why does that matter to me? she wondered. She still didn’t trust herself to respond calmly, so she simply waited for him to continue.

  “It’s going to make the job a lot longer because of it, and that means the price will have to go up.” He didn’t dress it up: straight to the point. He didn’t seem at all bothered.

  You’ve got to be bloody kidding me!

  So she was just supposed to say, “Okay, I’ve got loads of spare money,” and he’d get on with it and that would be that? She wrenched her gaze away from the bottom of the hole, rolled them back to somewhere in the top of her forehead, then yanked them back to look level at him.

  “Sorry?” she said frostily. Coolness had materialised from somewhere. “You quoted for the job, I accepted it and here you are here doing the job. We have a deal. You can’t go back on it now.” She hoped that made it plain enough. She really didn’t need any more strife in her day; her nerves were already frazzled with the bloody phone bill fiasco and now she had a landscaper trying to up his price because the bloody soil was too hard and it was going to take longer. The coolness evaporated as quickly as it had appeared. Now she could almost feel steam percolating behind her eyes and ears, ready to explode from them, comic book–style, at any second.