Free Money Never Sleeps by Stella Whitelaw Page B

tooself-obsessed with their own looks, their ambition, their place in society.
    It was nearly one o’clock before Jed returned. Fancy was in bed, reading notes for her talk the following day. At least her legs were getting a rest.
    He knocked on the door of room 425.
    ‘Password,’ said Fancy, slipping out of bed.
    ‘Dammit,’ said Jed. ‘It’s Jed. Do I need a password?’
    ‘Yes.’
    ‘Did we arrange a password?’
    ‘Of course, we did.’
    ‘Liar. Campari and ice. Will that do?’
    ‘Come in.’
    Jed looked exhausted. He had combed the grounds, the gardens, all the halls. Nothing. Even the smoker’s gazebo had given up coughing and gone to bed. His Roman fringe was standing on end as if his hand had gone through it a dozen times.
    ‘We need to talk,’ he said, sitting down on the end of her bed. ‘I’m not staying, don’t worry, but a cup of tea would be great.’
    Fancy filled the kettle with fresh water and switched it on. Jed had taken off his vulnerable glasses and was rubbing his eyes. He looked ready for sleep. He’d already driven into Derby and back that afternoon, missed any supper. She supposed his car was fitted with special controls. Another thing to ask him, one day.
    ‘So what shall we talk about, before you fall asleep?’ asked Fancy, making tea. ‘I’ve a stolen banana. Now defrosted.’
    ‘Pass over stolen goods. I need the energy. Whoever it is that’s tormenting you with happenings or non-happenings is determined and nasty. He needs to be caught and frightened off, stopped, before someone gets hurt.’
    ‘Before I get hurt.’
    ‘Melody got hurt. Badly hurt. So hurt that she is now in a refrigerated box in Derby.’
    ‘Is there a connection? Is anyone else being sent severed hands in a biscuit tin?’
    ‘I haven’t heard any other screams of terror.’
    ‘I didn’t scream.’
    ‘Only a tiny squeak,’ Jed agreed. ‘Amazing self-control.’
    Fancy sat on the bed beside him, wrapped in her pashmina. It was like a replay of the pre-supper party that evening, but without the fun and laughter and wine. She made sure there was space between them as Jed negotiated the hot tea with his one good hand. He noticed her precaution.
    ‘You should have seen my handwriting when I had to start learning to write with my left hand. It was like a child’s.’
    ‘Like Nelson’s.’
    He was surprised. ‘Have you seen that letter? The first he wrote with his left hand after he lost his right hand?’
    ‘Yes, the one dated 27 July 1797.
I am become a burden to my friends and useless to my country
,’ she quoted. ‘I went to an exhibition of Nelson’s relics and memorabilia at Greenwich.’
    Jed looked astonished. ‘So did I. Yes, I went to that exhibition. We might have passed each other in the crowd. Brushed shoulders , even.’
    ‘I think you trod on my toe. Someone big trod on my toe.’
    ‘It was probably me. I apologize.’
    ‘I accept your apology.’
    ‘If only I had said hello.’
    Jed put the tea down on the floor, being careful not to tip it over. He looked at Fancy with caution, trying to gauge her reaction . She looked calm enough but she was an old hand at disguising her feelings. He never knew exactly what she was thinking. He could gauge the emotion but not the thoughts.
    ‘Would you like me to stay the night? You’ve a double bed. We could put a pillow down the centre for propriety’s sake.’
    Fancy imaged that pillow, white and pristine. Jed would be only inches away, that silver-streaked hair on another pillow, breathing his own sleep. She had only her pink teddy bear nightshirt . Not long enough to be entirely modest. She thought of the bleak loneliness of other nights, hundreds of nights, when she had longed for a companion. Anyone, just someone there, being on the other side of a pillow.
    ‘A pillow?’
    ‘No room for a barbed wire fence,’ he said, keeping a straight face. ‘If that’s what you’d prefer.’
    ‘Is this to protect me?’
    ‘I want