Nothing to Lose Read Free

And there’s just one more thing.’ He looked down at the papers in front of him. ‘ To Jasmine Clegg I leave my business. I know she loves it as much as I do. I have had the licence transferred to her name to come into effect six weeks after my death. ’
    ‘Business? What business?’ Andrew looked quizzical, then his eyes widened in horror. ‘Jesus Christ! He doesn’t mean . . . ?’
    Jasmine started to laugh. Her parents were gaping at her across the bar. Roger, Allan and Peg were all beaming.
    John Bestley gathered the pages of the will together tidily. ‘Congratulations, my dear. You are now the proud proprietor of Benny Clegg – the Punters Friend.’
    Jasmine, not knowing whether to laugh or cry now, was slightly disturbed to find she was doing both.
    Benny had left her his bookmaker’s pitch at Ampney Crucis Greyhound Stadium.

Chapter Two
    ‘And just what do you intend to do with this?’
    Jasmine sat down heavily, puffing from her exertions, and surveyed both her best friend, Clara, and the Victorian chiffonier, with grave doubt. ‘Goodness knows. I thought it’d sort of slot in.’
    ‘It’d sort of slot in,’ Clara said, ‘to the mansion it was designed for. It was a tight squeeze in Benny’s front room. It is never – never, ever – going to fit into a beach hut.’
    It was a month after the funeral. June had come to Dorset, bringing with it fine weather and the first rush of holidaymakers. The beach hut, one in a row of two dozen perfect 1920s specimens, had a wooden slatted veranda, two main rooms, a minuscule bathroom, a kitchenette comprising two sockets and a gas ring, net curtains, and a line for hanging up wet bathing costumes; and, like its neighbours, was painted in sugared-almond colours. The huts stood in proud defiance along the Ampney Crucis sea front; with the skewwhiff wooden steps down to the sands in front of them, and the undulating gradient of the cliffs behind.
    Jasmine had already transferred most of Benny’s furniture into the beach hut. The chiffonier was the last to go. Clara, in one of her rare moments either not at work or in the gym, had been co-opted in as heaver-and-shover-in-chief. The chiffonier’s move had taken far longer than Jasmine had anticipated, and they now had an interested audience of small children in shorts.
    Scrambling to her feet, Jasmine once again grabbed a corner of the chiffonier. For a few minutes they seemed to be making some headway, then Clara dropped her end of the enormous cabinet with a groan.
    ‘There! That’s it! I’ve broken a fingernail! Andrew should be helping you with this. I can’t believe he’s let you do the house clearance on your own.’
    ‘I wasn’t on my own,’ Jasmine panted, tugging futilely at the immovable object. ‘Roger and Allan and Peg helped.’
    ‘Get real! They’re all eighty at least!’
    ‘No they’re not. And anyway, they helped me with respect and sympathy, and didn’t mind me crying all the time. Andrew would have mocked.’
    ‘Yeah, he probably would, the bastard. But still, Allan and Roger must be pensionable by now, and Peg Dunstable is away with the fairies.’
    ‘She is not!’ Jasmine giggled. ‘Just because she thinks she’s Doris Day doesn’t mean that she hasn’t got all her marbles. She’s a very astute businesswoman, she’s just got a bit of a fixation – ’
    Clara picked at the flaking nail. ‘You are so naive, Jas, do you know that? Peg Dunstable is totally barking. God you’ll make a right team.’
    ‘Yes, we probably will. Now forget your manicure and my sanity and lift your end.’
    They lifted and pushed, but the chiffonier was still wedged at an angle across the veranda. Clara, again examining the damaged fingernail, leaned against the cabinet with a sigh. ‘What we need is a strategy – and the help of a couple of rugby teams. Why couldn’t you have got yourself engaged to a man with biceps, instead of . . . ?’
    ‘Go on, you can say it. You’ve said it