by Alice Castle
The Body in Belair Park
The Sixth London Murder Mystery
Alice Castle
From the same bestselling series:
1. Death in Dulwich
2. The Girl in the Gallery
3. Calamity in Camberwell
4. Homicide in Herne Hill
5. Revenge on the Rye

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Crooked Cat Books
Copyright © 2019 by Alice Castle
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Editor: Christine McPherson
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No part of this book may be used or reproduced in any manner whatsoever without written permission of the author or Crooked Cat Books except for brief quotations used for promotion or in reviews. This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, and incidents are used fictitiously.
First Dark Edition, darkstroke. 2019
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To my mother, Anita Freeman,
an excellent bridge player
who doesn’t wear scarves.
With love and thanks.
Acknowledgements
I have so many people to thank. Most important of all are the readers who love Beth and have followed her journey so far. I hope you’ll continue to enjoy the ride as we venture ever deeper into south east London. Many thanks to William Fitchew who came to one of my Life and Death in Dulwich talks, played my ‘think of a title’ game, and came up with The Body in Belair Park. And thanks to Dulwich’s fantastic independent bookshops, Village Books, The Dulwich Bookshop and Rye Books, for all their support. Thanks to Christine McPherson, my brilliant editor, and to Laurence and Steph at Crooked Cat and darkstroke for making it all possible.
Thank you so much to everyone at the Charlton House Bridge Club for making my research such fun. Before writing the book I enjoyed re-reading Agatha Christie’s Cards On The Table and Georgette Heyer’s Duplicate Death, both books that DI Harry York would love. Breakthrough Bridge by Zia Mahmood and Beginning Bridge by English Bridge Education were very useful. Many thanks, finally, to whoever invented bridge – a fascinating and infuriating game which I am sure has provoked many a real-life murder.
About the Author
Before turning to crime, Alice Castle was a UK newspaper journalist for The Daily Express, The Times and The Daily Telegraph. Her first book, Hot Chocolate, was a European hit and sold out in two weeks.
Death in Dulwich was published in September 2017 and has been a number one best-seller in the UK, US, France, Spain and Germany. A sequel, The Girl in the Gallery, was published in December 2017 to critical acclaim and also hit the number one spot. Calamity in Camberwell, the third book in the London Murder Mystery series, was published in August 2018, with Homicide in Herne Hill following in October 2018. Revenge on the Rye came out in December 2018. Alice is currently working on the seventh London Murder Mystery adventure, The Slayings in Sydenham. It will feature Beth Haldane and DI Harry York.
Alice is also a mummy blogger and book reviewer via her website
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Links to buy books:
Death in Dulwich
The Girl in the Gallery
Calamity in Camberwell
Homicide in Herne Hill
Revenge on the Rye
Death in Dulwich is now also out as an audiobook
Alice lives in south London and is married with two children, two step-children and two cats.
The Body in Belair Park
The Sixth London Murder Mystery
From the same series:
1. Death in Dulwich
2. The Girl in the Gallery
3. Calamity in Camberwell
4. Homicide in Herne Hill
5. Revenge on the Rye
Chapter One
Beth Haldane’s bottom was wedged on a sliver of vinyl ottoman the exact size and shape of a Dairylea cheese triangle. It was the day before the start of the autumn term, and she was in the school shoe department of Peter Jones. How did I end up here? she asked herself in despair. She’d had all summer to get this done, but inevitably, here they were at the last possible moment, in a very special circle of hell. There were bad-tempered squeals and shoves everywhere, and that was just amongst the grown-ups.
She shifted a little, trying to get a better purchase on the shiny surface. Inadvertently, she brushed up against her companions on either side in all too intimate a fashion. The woman on Beth’s right gave her a vicious look. Her little girl was being fitted with a pair of red Mary-Janes which, in Beth’s considered opinion, would not last a week in any playground.
Over in the boys’ section was Beth’s own beloved Ben. Now a sturdy eleven-year-old with bright, enquiring eyes and a rather curly, over-long head of hair (no time to get it cut now), he was laughing helplessly. He and another lad his age had struck up one of those instant friendships that Beth sorely envied. She supposed she ought to be over there, pushing him to decide on some shoes that would somehow perform the impossible feat of being practical and yet not hopelessly uncool, getting this ghastly chore over and done. But letting him choose his own was just one of the ways in which she was trying to give him a bit more autonomy.
It was a small reward for having pulled off the seemingly impossible feat of squeaking into Wyatt’s School.
Anyway, she wasn’t risking too much, was she? Boys’ shoes were all much of a muchness. Ugly, black, clumpy things that would be clogging up her hall for the foreseeable future. He might as well pick something he liked. And if she moved, she’d never find anywhere else to sit.
Beth shut her eyes briefly. She really couldn’t believe she was here – either in this eleventh-hour footwear frenzy, or getting ready for Wyatt’s. Shoehorning Ben into Wyatt’s School had been her dream for almost as long as she could remember, pretty much since she’d first clapped eyes on his downy head in the maternity ward. Just thinking of his triumph gave her a little thrill which made the ottoman, the shoes, and even the mothers fade away. But the trouble with having lifelong ambitions was that when they were finally realised, you were left treading air like a cartoon cat shooting off a cliff.
Sorting out Ben’s schooling had been her motivation for staying on in expensive Dulwich after her husband had died, had been the aim behind every penny she’d saved up since his birth (not that many, despite her best efforts), and had even been the reason why she’d applied for the post of archivist at the school itself. She’d hoped, sneakily enough, that working behind the scenes at the school would give her some kind of edge. It was fair to say that hadn’t worked out. It had just got her a ringside seat at her first murder, while the rest of the staff seemed to take it in turns to assure her there was no preferential treatment on admissions. Luckily, she loved the job. And unbelievably, Ben had done her proud anyway.
But what was going to force her to get things done now? She could concentrate all her efforts on her role as archivist. She could even produce her detailed plan for the definitive biography of Sir Thomas Wyatt, the appalling swashbuckler who’d founded the school. Her employers had been awaiting it for far too long now. But she suspected she’d still have a gap at the centre of her life.
She supposed this was why people did all that mindfulness stuff. So that they stopped being so goal-orientated and concentrated instead on inner peace and happiness. Beth shut her eyes and tried to thi
nk calm, zen-infused thoughts. Immediately, her right-hand neighbour gave her a crafty shove and Beth almost lost her precarious inch of ottoman. Her eyes shot open and she stared at the woman, who fixed innocent eyes on her phone.
If mindfulness was hard going in Peter Jones, it was going to be impossible back in Dulwich. Beneath her heavy fringe, Beth’s forehead was as finely concertinaed as a Venetian blind. But the pleats dropped out as Ben strolled over to her, swinging a big black shoe by the laces. Beth smiled up at him. ‘Are you sure you’ll want to bother doing those up every morning?’ she asked, head on one side. Ben nodded impatiently, dropped the shoe and ran off to join his new friend, nimbly skipping over a brace of toddlers who were playing with some fluffy slippers, and dodging round a clutch of younger boys.
Beth frowned at the toddlers. Who on earth would bring innocent children here, on this, the last possible day to get kitted out for school? Maybe their mothers didn’t yet know about the tyranny of term dates they’d shortly be subjected to, or maybe these kids had older siblings who were already in the system. The poor creatures, playing on the floor with discarded tissue paper and empty shoe boxes, looked happy enough, though the mothers seemed shell-shocked.
But then that applied to Beth, too. They’d had about eight long weeks to get Ben shod. The days had been whiled away very pleasantly, but somehow they had ended up here at just the wrong moment.
Beth made a decision and stood up, hoping Ben was serious about the lace-ups and not just bored with the whole shoe thing. Now that she’d given up her corner of the seat, another nearby mother darted forward, but was too late. The two women Beth had been sandwiched between fluffed themselves up like broody hens and effortlessly reclaimed the space. Beth plodded over to the queue at the cash desk, taking a quick look at the price tag on the underside of the shoes and really wishing she hadn’t. It would have been better if she’d just handed over her credit card without bothering herself with the fine print of the colossal sum she was actually spending. Suffice to say, it was more than her own shoe budget for many years.
‘We’d like these, please,’ said Beth, when she’d eventually reached the front of the line.
The assistant, who must surely have been on a heavy dose of tranquilisers to withstand a whole day in this department, took a quick glance. ‘What size, madam?’
Beth looked at her in horror. The measuring! They’d missed out a whole step. They were truly going to be in this place forever. The assistant gave a knowing smile and passed Beth a tiny numbered ticket, like the ones they gave out at the Village deli on busy days. ‘My colleague will be over shortly. Just take a seat,’ she added, as though it were the easiest thing in the world.
Beth suppressed a scream and glanced back over her shoulder at the carnage. The entire department was rammed. Grumpy mothers stood around, giving the evil eye to those who’d got a perch on the ottomans, while the children, completely over-excited by the anarchy, rushed back and forwards between the shelves. There were hardly any shoes left that would pass muster now. Beth clutched the black lace-up more firmly, determined not to let it out of her sight. Ben might be destined to struggle with them every day for months until he outgrew them, but they were a lot better than nothing at all. After the long summer, he was left with one pair of smelly old trainers to his name. And they were white, or had been once. There was no way they could get away with those at Wyatt’s.
Beth would have seriously considered giving up the ghost, but the thought of Ben being the only child without proper shoes on his first morning stiffened her resolve. He wouldn’t be bothered. But she would suffer the myriad mortifications of the bad mother.
She sighed and trudged back towards her ottoman without much hope in her heart. But when she approached, though the women stared at her, questioning her right to return, one look at Beth’s face had both of them shoving up infinitesimally. She subsided gratefully. Just as she was getting settled, she heard her phone. Ugh. It was playing Bridge Over Troubled Water. In a mischievous moment, her ‘boyfriend’ – for want of a better word – DI Harry York of the Metropolitan Police, had programmed her ancient not-very-smart phone with witty theme tunes. This was the one for her mother.
Beth took a deep breath, hoping the phone would cut off. If there was a single thing that wasn’t going to improve her day, squashed between strangers on the world’s least comfortable seat, it was a conversation with her mother. The tune shrilled on, and Mrs Vicious-Stare turned to give her a look which could have stripped paint. There was nothing for it. Beth somehow wrestled her bag off her shoulder without throwing all three of them onto the floor, and lugged the phone out.
‘Mum. Hello,’ Beth said cautiously. Ever since she had asked for her mother’s help in finding out some background information on old friends at the beginning of the year, Wendy had been even more circumspect than usual in her dealings with her daughter. The pair had never been close. Beth had been very much a daddy’s girl, and had been heartbroken and stunned when her kind and gentle father had succumbed to a heart attack in his middle years. She’d even secretly blamed her mother’s cholesterol-choked cuisine, especially when Wendy had abandoned her repertoire of fry-ups and steamed puddings right after the funeral and forced muesli and grapefruit on her bewildered children until they’d left home.
‘Beth, is that you?’ Wendy quavered.
Although still in her fifties, one of Wendy’s most maddening affectations, if Beth had been forced to choose from the array her mother seemed to exhibit, was displaying all the quirks of old age. Anyone who didn’t know Wendy better would have thought she was simply amazing for seventy-five, from her snowy hair to her carefully vague blue eyes. Beth suspected she was one of the few who realised her mother was only just middle-aged, strong as an ox, and would probably outlive them all. She supressed a sigh and admitted that she was, indeed, on the end of her own mobile phone.
‘But I’m a bit busy, Mum. Trying to get Ben’s shoes for tomorrow, you know.’
‘Tomorrow? What’s happening then?’ said Wendy.
Beth’s irritation levels swung immediately up into the red zone. How could any grandmother worth the name remain oblivious to such a crucial day? Wendy really took not just the biscuit, but the whole tin, too.
‘Ben’s first day. Wyatt’s,’ Beth hissed, concerned that every word was being overheard by the two mothers sitting like sentinels on either side of her. Not that she was ashamed of her boy; quite the reverse. But it didn’t do to be seen boasting. It was such a tightrope walk, being a mum. You had to take pride in your child’s achievements, of course. But you had to be super-careful not to shove those self-same achievements down other people’s throats.
‘Oh? Oh yes, of course. Don’t worry, he’ll be fine,’ Wendy said, with all the airy unconcern of total indifference. ‘But something dreadful’s happened, Beth. You won’t believe it…’ Wendy tailed off dramatically.
Beth took a deep breath. She knew from long experience that her mother was probably fulminating about some slip-shod play at the Bridge Club.
Her attention wandered. She looked down at the little ticket in her other hand, and up at the electronic display near the till. Still five people in front of her waiting for fittings. Luckily Ben was very happily occupied, over in his corner, where a group of boys of about his age had now gathered and were all peering at someone’s iPhone screen. Beth hoped it was just one of Ben’s normal battle games and they weren’t looking at anything dodgy. She didn’t mind him blasting umpteen enemy forces out of the sky, but she wasn’t at all keen on him discovering anything more salty via his peers. As if she didn’t have enough worries, the dreaded talk about the birds and the bees was looming…
‘…And then I found the body,’ Wendy wailed in her ear.
Wait, what? Had her mother really said that?
‘The body? Whose body? Don’t tell me someone’s…’
‘Yes, Beth. As I’ve been saying. It’s Alfie. He’s – dead.’
Chapter Two
The havoc of the shoe department faded into the background as Beth concentrated fully on her mother’s voice for the first time. Why hadn’t she noticed, until now, the strain and sorrow in those familiar tones? She’d been far too quick to dismiss her mother’s concerns as trivial. But this really did sound like a tragedy.
‘I’m so sorry to hear that, Mum. I can’t believe Alfie is dead.’ Alfie Pole had been Wendy’s bridge partner for ages. How awful, and very sad for Wendy. Beth felt sympathy welling up. ‘You must be feeling really shaken. Would you like me to pop in tomorrow? After I’ve taken Ben in, of course. We can have a cup of tea. You can tell me all about it.’
It wasn’t convenient at all. Only a few minutes ago, Beth had been contemplating the acres of free time she’d have now that the Wyatt’s project had finally been achieved. She’d even been wondering what on earth to do with herself. But she now realised that, actually, tomorrow would have been the perfect moment to get down to some serious work in her little Archives Institute. She could have sorted out the whole summer pile-up, and possibly even have caught a glimpse of that very rare beast, the bottom of her in-tray.
There was nothing for it, though. She’d just have to put all that on hold. She knew how bereft she’d felt herself when one of her friends had died recently. True, Alfred had been… well, how old? At least in his seventies or eighties, thought Beth vaguely. So, it shouldn’t really have been a shock. But age was no doubt a moveable feast. From where she stood, in her middle thirties, eighty seemed like a fine innings. No doubt the closer you got to that point, the more it started to resemble spring chicken status, and even ninety began to seem like a life cut horribly short.
