Ex-Appeal

by Zoe Barnes

Genres: General Fiction

Synopsis

Gina had fallen for Matt Hooley when they were both teenage rebels. Together, they were going to save the world - until their mothers put a stop to it, and made sure they never saw each other again. Now, fourteen years later, Gina still regards Matt as 'The One'. No one else has ever come close to measuring up. All of her other boyfriends have eventually stumbled at some hurdle or other, cursing 'Saint Matt' as they fell. Gina's always had a daydream that one day Matt would come back and carry her off on his obligatory white charger. But never once in her fantasies did he ever arrive complete with an ex-wife and three kids! Worse, her teenage rebel has become thoroughly respectable. Well groomed, wealthy, middle class - he could even pass for an accountant! How can her Mr Right have gone so wrong...?

Release date: July 26, 2012

Publisher: Little, Brown Book Group

Print pages: 480

Sample

Fifteen years ago, Weston-super-Mare

Gina Mason screamed so loudly that all the sparrows fluttered out of the dusty sycamore in panic.

‘No! No, you can’t make me, I won’t go!’

She kicked out at the policewoman’s shins but she was hanging on to her baggy, mud-stained pullover with the kind of effortless
strength that made struggling hopeless. Not that that made any difference to Gina. She struggled anyway; struggled as though
her whole life depended on it, which as far as she was concerned, it did.


‘Now, now, miss, be reasonable,’ urged the middle-aged constable. ‘There’s no point getting yourself all worked up, is there?’

Sagging yellow nets twitched behind grimy front windows, all the way along the shabby row of terraced houses; but nobody came
out to see why there was a police car outside number sixteen, or why the squatter with the long black hair was wailing like
a banshee.


‘Matt!’ she yelled at the top of her voice, even though she knew he wasn’t there. The fascist lackeys had timed their visit well, waited till he was out of the house for half an hour then swooped. How long had they been watching? How
long had they known that the two of them were there?


Tears were fountaining out of Gina’s large green eyes, dripping down a face so hot and red that they had evaporated before
they reached the stubborn point of her chin. She twisted and writhed in the policewoman’s iron grip. ‘Help me somebody, don’t
let them take me away!’


Gina Mason’s mother seemed eerily unruffled by the small domestic drama unfolding on the pavement. Maybe there was a flicker
of something behind the calm façade, but there was no way she was going to allow herself any unseemly displays of emotion.


‘This is so kind of you, officer,’ she said in her best telephone voice as the policewoman and her male colleague led the
squirming Gina towards their patrol car.


‘All in a day’s work, madam. Can’t have youngsters running off and getting themselves into trouble, can we?’

Youngsters! Gina felt utterly demeaned, used, humiliated. She wanted to shout out, ‘I’m not a child, I’m not your property,
I’m fourteen years old! And me and Matt are a hundred times better than YOU’ll ever be!’, but the words wouldn’t come any
more. Every time she opened her mouth the tears started welling up again. Tears of rage, tears of frustration, tears of pain.
She and Matt were in love, she and Matt were meant to be together forever, and now people who didn’t understand or care were
tearing them apart.


‘I can assure you Georgina isn’t normally like this,’ said Mrs Mason with careful diction, pushing firmly down on her daughter’s head to force it through the back door of the police
car. ‘She was always such a nicely-behaved girl …’


The WPC fixed Gina with a sceptical smile. ‘I hope you realise all the trouble you’ve caused, young lady. Half the county’s
been out looking for you.’


Gina just glowered through her tears. Her mother wittered on, oblivious to the fact that the world was ending, as usual interested
only in how things looked to other people. ‘Always such a good girl,’ she repeated resentfully. ‘Until she took up with …
him.’

‘His name’s Matt!’ sobbed Gina. ‘And I love him!’ She shrieked her rage to the whole of Weston-super-Mare. ‘I love him, do you hear?’


‘Yes, yes, of course you do dear. Fasten your seat belt and stop making an exhibition of yourself.’ She leaned forward to
continue her conversation with the policeman as the car pulled away. ‘She’ll be back to normal in no time, now we’ve got her
away from Him.’


The car started moving off down the tatty avenue, with its tired paintwork and wilting sycamore leaves. A dusty, late-August
wind rattled them like empty paper bags.


‘Matt!’ sobbed Gina. ‘Matt, who’s going to save all the radioactive forests?’

Mrs Mason’s mouth tensed. ‘Someone else,’ she replied with a half-amused glare. ‘You’ve got better things to do with your
life.’


But as the car turned the corner and headed along the shabby promenade, Gina twisted round in her seat and shouted back at the retreating avenue: ‘I love you Matt!’ Her fingers pressed against the rear window that separated her
from him. ‘I don’t care what they say, I’ll love you forever.’


The present day

Sunlight flashed off the surface of the water as the speedboat sped along the Thames.

It was a perfect day. You couldn’t have dreamed up a better one. The summer sun turned Matt’s honey-blond hair into a golden
halo as he swung the wheel round hard and the boat sent up a curtain of spray. If Gina really concentrated, she could imagine
it was Tower Bridge doing the 180-degree turn, not them.


‘Everything OK there?’ Matt shouted over the engine noise. His blue eyes were sparkling in his slender, tanned face and she
had never loved him more. This was how it was always meant to be, she thought to herself: you and me against the world, Matt
and Gina righting injustice and being absurdly happy.


‘Wild!’ she yelled back, sliding an arm round his waist and nestling her head in the crook of his shoulder.

They kissed and the boat leapt like a dolphin through the water. This was the best day of Gina’s life. After all, it wasn’t
every day you fouled up the Japanese Prime Minister’s state visit, forced basking sharks on to the agenda, and got yourselves and your cause on to prime time TV …


‘Every news crew in Europe was there!’

‘Every single one.’

‘And we really told them, didn’t we? I mean, we really made those fat-cat politicians sit up and take notice?’

He patted her hand. ‘We really did. Now hold on tight, I’m going to open her right up.’ He threw a glance back over his shoulder.
‘Looks like there’s a police patrol boat behind us, and I’m not planning on letting it catch us.’


‘Oi! Ratbag!’

Gina awoke with a start from her daydream, so abruptly that she dropped the roasting pan into the sink, splashing the front
of her Amnesty International T-shirt with greasy washing-up water.


‘Ugh!’ She extracted a slimy lump of boiled carrot from her long black hair. ‘Gross.’

‘Wakey-wakey, get your finger out.’ Phoebe Butt deposited yet another tray of dirty dishes on the kitchen table. ‘You’ve been
washing that tray for the last five minutes!’


Gina glared down into the sud-filled sink. Oh … grrrrrr. One minute you’re saving the planet with the man of your dreams,
the next some spoilsport drags you back to reality and you’re up to your elbows in soapy water.


She sniffed imperiously. ‘Hey, I’m talent, you know.’

Phoebe pulled a face and let out a laugh that made her ample breasts quiver. ‘Yeah, right.’

‘I am! I shouldn’t be washing pots in some scummy kitchen, I should be doing interesting things with shallots.’


‘And I shouldn’t be waiting on tables,’ Phoebe reminded her. ‘Only we can’t afford to pay anybody else to do the crap jobs,
remember? Besides, as kitchens go I wouldn’t exactly call Brockbourne Hall scummy.’


‘I s’pose,’ conceded Gina, glancing round her palatial surroundings as she plonked the washed tin upside down on the draining
board. ‘Still reckon we shouldn’t be washing up, though. Specially as we only did this dinner to help out your mate Ella.’


‘Don’t knock it, it’s good business! Some other catering company lets her down, we step in, next time she asks us first.’
Phoebe yawned and rested her trim bottom on the edge of a convenient cupboard. From toes to waist, and head to neck, Phoebe
cut a positively athletic figure. It was the bit in between that seemed to have lost all sense of proportion. ‘Anyway, never
mind the mutinous rumblings, just get a move on with that washing-up. I’ve been waiting on all evening, I want to go home.’


A stray tendril of very long, very black hair escaped from its moorings and slipped down over Gina’s face. She blew it away
and tossed it back over her shoulder. ‘You could help,’ she wheedled.


‘Hmm,’ grunted Phoebe.

‘Or … you could leave me to do it by myself so it takes twice as long and we don’t get to bed till two in the morning.’

‘That’s blackmail!’

Gina grinned.

‘Oh go on then, budge over.’ With matriarchal bad grace, Phoebe snatched up a tea towel. ‘You wash, I’ll wipe. And make sure you get all the grease off.’


‘Yes Mum.’

Phoebe flicked the tea towel at her head. ‘Oi you, behave.’ You’d never think she was six months younger than I am, thought
Gina. She’s so darned sensible. You wouldn’t catch Phoebe up a tree with a ‘Save The Squirrels’ banner. Well, not unless they were oven-ready squirrels and
she’d brought a casserole dish with her.


Gina had to admit that Phoebe was right. Dinner for fifty at Brockbourne Hall was a good gig for a small-time catering company
with big aspirations, and Let’s Do Lunch had never had any shortage of those. Mind you, they would need something better than
murder-mystery evenings if they were ever going to hit the big time.


A head popped round the doorway. ‘You know what you two are? Complete lifesavers, that’s what!’

‘Yes, we know,’ said Gina, without bothering to turn towards the owner of the voice. ‘Does this mean we’re getting a bonus?’

Ella Winters, Brockbourne Hall’s new events coordinator, leaned against the door frame and let out a heartfelt ‘Phhhhh. I
wish, darlings, I really do. But you know what budgets are, my margins are cut to the bone already. I’ll definitely be using
you again, though. I mean, if you hadn’t been able to step in and cater this party at the very last minute …’


‘Oh, you know us,’ replied Phoebe cheerily. ‘Anything, any time, anywhere. Just give us a call.’

Gina scrubbed at a bit of burnt-on grease. ‘Have wok, will travel.’

Yes, Brockbourne Hall was a top-notch venue all right. It was just a pity the profits weren’t equally aristocratic. Still,
Phoebe was right, they needed the money.


If only there were more exciting ways of making it.

‘Gina,’ protested Phoebe as the yellow Transit van rumbled along in the darkness, through the suburban heart of Cheltenham’s
retired colonel belt. ‘I thought we’d agreed! We cannot spend our lives cooking macrobiotic curries for the local Buddhist
healing circle.’


‘I never said we should!’

‘Or arranging hunger lunches for Third World disaster funds.’ She braked at the lights by the wine bar, and all the empty
baking tins clanked together in the back. ‘Or charity dinners in aid of distressed three-legged poodles.’


‘Now you’re just taking the piss! All I said was—’

‘I know what you said. The fact is, Let’s Do Lunch is a business, not that you’d ever know it from some of your daft ideas.
You said it yourself, we have to go out and get work, and it doesn’t much matter where it comes from.’


Gina whimpered. ‘Please tell me I don’t have to do canapés at the Conservative Club.’

‘You don’t. You can do queuing up at the Jobcentre instead.’

‘Don’t exaggerate!’

‘I’m not, and you know it. Either we make money, on a regular basis, or we go out of business. Which is it to be?’

Gina wasn’t ready to surrender just yet. ‘I don’t see why we can’t make a virtue out of being … you know … ethical. Like those banks that only invest your money in eco-friendly shares.’


‘Ethical? Oh my God.’ The van turned off the main road, leaving a row of mock-Tudor villas behind it, and set off down the
unmade track that led to Phoebe’s house. ‘Start living in the real world, will you?’


‘I am! People are going mad for non-GM foods and all that stuff. And vegan.’ Enthusiasm put a glint into Gina’s green eyes. ‘I can
do a wicked vegan stroganoff.’


Phoebe banged her forehead on the steering wheel and groaned. ‘Doomed. We’re doomed.’

They were still arguing when the van pulled up outside an overgrown farm-labourer’s cottage which had somehow acquired the
grand name of Quarterway House. It had stood there since the year dot, and as the margins of suburbia inched ever closer,
it had resisted the efforts of successive planning committees to demolish it and replace it with a nice block of retirement
flats. It’s a survivor, thought Gina. And so are we.


Even in the darkness, Phoebe’s smallholding looked out of place amid the neat avenues that clung to the southern edge of Cheltenham.
Doctor, dentist, quantity surveyor, tumbledown chicken shed, property developer, fashionable novelist … Visually, the place
stuck out like a sore thumb; and even if it hadn’t, you’d have been able to pinpoint it by the smell of fermenting goat dung.


‘Your turn to muck out the hen house in the morning,’ commented Phoebe as she jumped down from the van in a bounce of free-range
breasts.


‘How come whenever we have an argument it’s my turn to clean out the chickens?’ enquired Gina, retrieving her jacket from under the front seat.


Phoebe threw the house keys up in the air and caught them in her teeth. ‘Because I’m the evil capitalist landlord around here,
remember? And you haven’t paid me any rent for the last three months.’


‘You’ll get it!’

‘Is that before or after hell freezes over?’

‘Charming!’

Phoebe yawned. ‘Come on you anarchist scumbag, let’s get the van unloaded and go to bed.’

Gina wasn’t about to give up her pet subject that easily. She pursued Phoebe all the way up the path to the front door, still
arguing the toss. ‘I don’t care what you say, you know I’m right.’


‘No you’re not, and anyway it doesn’t matter who’s right, all that matters is how much dosh we can make.’

As Phoebe was standing in the porch, unlocking the front door, a rather bedraggled figure detached itself from the darkness
and loomed over her.


‘Need a hand?’

Phoebe squeaked in alarm. Gina retrieved the keys from the doormat. ‘Bloody hell, Sam! You nearly gave me a heart attack.’

‘Sorry.’ Sam leaned against the porch in a studiedly casual manner, hands in the pockets of his rain-soaked camouflage trousers,
dreadlocked brown hair hanging damply over his shoulders, silver nose ring glinting in the porch light. If the Design Museum
had set about creating the ultimate Crusty, Sam would have been it. ‘Hi Fee.’


Phoebe flashed him a swift smile. ‘Hi.’


‘How’s the hide?’ enquired Gina, unlocking the front door.

‘Hiding.’ Sam trailed after Gina as she returned to the van for the baking trays. ‘Buggers know I’m trying to count ’em.’
He attempted a look of casual nonchalance and managed constipation. ‘So. How was it then?’


Gina pulled a face. ‘You don’t want to know. Here, make yourself useful.’ She dumped an armful of plates on Sam. ‘In the kitchen,
by the draining board.’


‘Put the kettle on, G,’ commanded Phoebe as the three of them headed for the kitchen. ‘I’m just off for a wee.’

Phoebe made her escape. Gina looked Sam up and down. ‘I suppose you’ll want a cup of tea too,’ she commented, without enthusiasm.

Sam brightened. ‘That’d be nice.’

‘White no sugar?’ Gina picked up the old brown pot as a visual aid.

‘Thanks. Shall I …?’ Sam sprang towards the kettle and hit his head on a dangling copper saucepan. ‘Ow.’

Gina rescued the pan and examined it for dents. ‘For goodness’ sake sit down before you break something. Here, have a biscuit.’
Sam peered into the tin. ‘It’s OK, unrefined sugar, no animal fats. I made them myself.’


Sam tucked in with gusto. ‘Hey, these are really great.’

Gina sat down opposite him, and drummed her fingers on the kitchen table. ‘Of course they are.’

‘You’re a fantastic cook.’

‘I know.’

Sam started fiddling with his eyebrow piercing, always a sure sign that he was contemplating something momentous. He cleared his throat. ‘I … er … do you like Tibetan?’


‘Spaniels or lamas?’

‘Drumming.’

‘S’pose it’s OK. Not as good as Balinese though. Why?’

‘There’s this gig on at the Arts Centre. I just sort of wondered if maybe you’d like to, you know, I mean, if you’re not too
busy …’


At that moment, much to Gina’s relief, Phoebe returned, buttoning up her ancient 501s. ‘Well?’ she asked expectantly, looking
from Sam to Gina and back again.


‘Well what?’ retorted Gina.

‘You two look like you’ve just been caught raiding the Queen Mother’s knicker drawer.’

Sam clapped a hand to his mouth. ‘Shit, I forgot. The pigs came round.’

Phoebe frowned. ‘Pigs? As in oink?’

‘Nope, pigs as in would-you-mind-accompanying-me-to-the-station-and-helping-me-with-my-inquiries.’

‘What did they want?’ demanded Phoebe, with a suspicious look at Gina. ‘Don’t tell me – it was about that protest march she
went on, wasn’t it?’


‘Dunno. They, like, never said.’ He held out a business card. ‘But they left this and said to ring them, soon as you can.’

Phoebe’s prize bantam cockerel was called Oliver; though if you asked him he’d probably say it was ‘come back here you little
fucker’. Each new morning began with the dawn chorus and a new outraged neighbour on her doorstep.


It had been a long fortnight. Too long, thought Gina, as she lay in bed listening to the thuds, squawks and swearing coming
from downstairs. Yet again, Phoebe was chasing Oliver through the kitchen; and yet again, she had woken Gina up. Gina did
not like being rudely awakened, particularly by poultry with an inflated opinion of their own importance. Semi-vegetarian
she might be, but lately Gina had been dreaming up recipes for curried cockerel.


Leaning out of bed, she hammered on the floor. ‘Oi! Tell that chicken to shut it!’

The only answer was the slamming of the back door, and the fading sounds as the chase receded into the distance. She flopped
back on to the pillows. A sidelong glance at the cow-shaped alarm clock on the bedside table confirmed Gina’s worst fears.
It was only half past six. And there were chickens to muck out, lots of chickens. Sometimes she suspected that Fee deliberately
caused a racket, just to make sure she didn’t get a lie-in.


Reluctantly she tunnelled out of bed, leaving behind the comfy duvet, and the battered pillow she never went anywhere without,
because it smelled of old adventures. That pillow had been halfway across the world. It had fallen in the Ganges twice, had
been trodden on by an elephant in Sri Lanka, and had hot jalapeño sauce spilt on it in New Mexico. If Gina had her way, it
was going to have a good few more stains on it before it finally fell to bits.


She padded down the landing and braved the bathroom mirror. It reflected back five feet seven of gangly Cher-alike, completely
naked except for an electric-blue belly-button ring and an ill-advised henna tattoo that wouldn’t wash off. Hmm. Nose too
big, chest too flat, eyes too green, mouth too fond of having its say. She stuck out her tongue at herself and an end-of-season
offcut from Carpet World waggled back at her. Yeuch. Gina, she told herself, you’re twenty-nine years old. One of these days
you’re going to have to start acting your age. She grinned and thumbed her nose at her reflection. Nah. Sod that for a game
of soldiers.


Throwing on wide-legged cotton pants and a baggy paisley thing she’d brought in a street market in Simla, Gina headed off
down the stairs, taking the last six in a single bound. Sugar, that’s what she needed. Great big spoonfuls of nasty white
refined sugar. It wouldn’t hurt to forget her principles, just this once.


Just as she was reaching out for the Frosties packet, she spotted the Post-it note stuck right in the middle of her cereal
bowl; and the neatly-printed message in Phoebe’s succinct style: RING POLICE YOU RATBAG, CLEAN BOG.


Aw, thought Gina. Why me? Why can’t Fee do it? A cloud of feathers squawked past the kitchen window, hotly pursued by a cursing
figure. Well OK, maybe Fee was a bit tied up right now, but all the same, her ringing the police was like a pheasant ringing
up the local shooting club.


Unease twinged as her hand reached out for the phone. Come on, she told herself, you’re being an idiot. After all, it’s not as if you’ve done anything illegal, is it? Well, not recently. In fact not since last September, when she’d scaled
the Town Hall roof to stick up that banner. And even then they’d let her off with a caution.


She cleared her throat. ‘Can I speak to DS Reynolds please? What? Oh, Mason. Gina Mason.’

The wait was interminable. Then a woman’s voice came on the other end of the line. She listened. And slowly the colour drained
away from her cheeks.


All of a sudden she didn’t feel like Frosties any more.

Oliver the cockerel was still squawking indignantly as Phoebe bundled him into the kitchen, securely lodged under one armpit.

‘Got him.’ She headed for the cupboard under the stairs. ‘Hold still you little sod. One more peck out of you and you’re chicken
soup. Now, where’s that cat-box we took Tilly to the vet in?’


Gina said nothing. She was still sitting at the breakfast bar, staring into the depths of her empty bowl.

Phoebe rummaged in the cupboard for several minutes, before emerging empty-handed. ‘Damn, I can’t find it anywhere. You haven’t
had it for anything, have you, G?’ For the first time Phoebe noticed that she had been carrying on a one-sided conversation
ever since she came into the house. ‘G?’ Dropping Oliver, who strutted off, she waved a hand in front of Gina’s eyes. ‘Anybody
at home?’


Gina started. ‘It’s the police, Fee.’

Phoebe studied her friend’s ashen face. ‘What about them? Gina, what have you done this time? Tell me it wasn’t you who sprayed those rude words on the Mayor’s car.’


‘It’s not me, Fee, it’s us.’ She looked up, panic-stricken. ‘They want to talk to us. About a fraud!’


There were no two ways about it: the taxi was very definitely stuck fast. It crawled down Lansdown Road, in the middle of
the protest march, like an Arctic breaker surrounded by pack ice.


‘Ruddy animal rights,’ grumbled the taxi driver. ‘At this rate they’ll be sold out by the time I get to the pasty shop. Nothing
like a good pasty, plenty of meat, puts lead in yer pencil.’


Gina hunched like a malevolent goblin on the back seat, forcing herself not to scream. It wasn’t easy. She hated travelling
in the back of cars. Everything about them reminded her of the police car that had carried her away from Weston on that horrible
day, all those years before. The worst day of her entire life. The last day she ever saw Matt …


She swallowed and tried to think beautiful thoughts, though it wasn’t easy with the driver ranting on about Hitler being a
vegetarian. Turning to look out of the window, she watched the procession samba-ing lazily down the road to the railway station,
to the deafening accompaniment of drums and whistles. Hey, this was almost cool. Home made placards waved in the sunshine.
Fifty somethings linked arms on the pavement, singing in Welsh about animal testing. Somebody dressed as a leek was handing
out dragon-shaped balloons. Gina sighed wistfully. She knew where she’d rather be right now, and it wasn’t inside this car
with a sweaty man in a vest.


‘Course, it’s gotta be yer authentic pasty. Bit of swede, bit of onion …’ A ‘Meat is Murder’ banner drifted slowly past. ‘Big chunks of prime juicy steak …’


Gina gritted her teeth. ‘Steak. Right.’

The cab driver made eye contact in the rear-view mirror. ‘Then there’s yer potato. Now, there’s some as says yer potato ain’t
authentic, but I says, what about yer cheese an’ bacon an’ yer balti chicken?’


Gina felt her attention wandering, her mind drifting off to the strange, surreal place it retreated to whenever real life
became unacceptable. She was fourteen again, saving the world from acid rain, disposable nappies and Bernard Matthews; able
to reel off every E-number in a portion of chicken nuggets, the way most fourteen-year-olds could recite the lyrics to their
favourite pop songs.


All of a sudden, half a dozen people in outlandish papier-mâché heads emerged from the swarm of protestors, ran across in
front of the car and stormed the station car park.


Gina blinked as a tall figure in an elephant head stopped in its tracks, ran back to the car and wrenched open the rear passenger
door.


‘Come on!’

She stared up at the head. ‘Uh?’

‘Hurry up!’


‘But … who are—?’

‘My God, Gina.’ The figure wrenched off its head and shook out its mane of golden hair. ‘Looks like I got here just in time.’


She sighed. ‘Piss off, Matt.’

His face fell. ‘What d’you mean, piss off?’

‘Which bit don’t you understand? The piss or the off? Go away, Matt, you’re just a stupid fantasy and I’m not in the mood
for fantasies. OK?’


Hurt and surprised, Matt Hooley and his elephant-head mask vanished into thin air like sunshine on a bank holiday. Gina turned
her head back towards the procession and watched clean-cut teenage policemen scampering around after protestors like butterfly
collectors without the nets.


Nope. Not in the mood at all.

‘What do you mean, fled the country!’ squeaked Phoebe, almost dropping her official police-station cup of tea into the saucer.

DS Reynolds folded his hands and looked Phoebe up and down. ‘You didn’t know, then?’

‘Know!’

‘He didn’t give you any advance notification that he was thinking of leaving the UK?’

That stung Gina into sarcastic action. ‘Yeah, of course he did. I mean bent accountants always ring their clients up to let
them know they’re about to be ripped off, don’t they?’ She flicked her hair back over her shoulder like a matador’s cape.
‘“Hi folks, just thought I’d let you know I’m thinking of skipping the country with all your dosh.” Makes perfect sense that
does!’


‘Shut up, Gina.’ Phoebe took a long swig of tea, breathed deeply and hammered the lid down on her rising panic. ‘Let’s get
this straight, Sergeant. My accountant has been cooking the books, right?’


DS Reynolds attempted a look of compassion. ‘I’m afraid it certainly looks that way, Miss Butt.’

‘Oh my God.’ Fee and Gina exchanged looks. ‘He’s nicked all our money, G.’

‘We haven’t got any money.’

‘Not now we bloody well haven’t.’

The detective sergeant took a sip of water and continued. ‘Our preliminary inquiries suggest that a serious offence has been
committed. In fact, in view of Mr Applegate’s large client base, it would appear that the gentleman in question may have committed
numerous offences.’


‘You mean he ripped off everybody, not just us?’ cut in Gina.

‘It is starting to look that way.’

‘And you just wanted to talk to us to tell us he’d nicked our money?’ concluded Phoebe.

‘Don’t be an idiot,’ scoffed Gina. ‘He’s trying to find out if we’re in on it. Aren’t you, Sergeant?’

The kitchen at Quarterway House looked like an explosion in a paper-recycling depot. There were invoices all over the work
surfaces, ledgers on the draining board, tatty bits of paper and till receipts in huge great snowdrifts that represented the
overspill from five carrier-bags’ worth of wanton spending.


The police auditor was being alarmingly thorough. It was all very humiliating, mused Gina. Like having your unwashed knickers inspected in public by Delia Smith. I bet you’re
really getting off on this, aren’t you? she thought as the stern-faced woman in the grey trouser suit swept past into the
living room with an armful of chocolate-stained invoices. Just think – you spend twenty years toiling away in the bowels of
the Inland Revenue, getting your kicks querying people’s dry-cleaning bills; and then this big, exciting gig drops right i