by Heide Goody
“Mr and Mrs Starsky and Hutch? That was a spin-off?”
He scowled at her. “You know. Mr and Mrs. Derek Batey asking couples what their favourite flower is, or where they’re most ticklish, and seeing if they give the same answer. Lovely chap. An accomplished ventriloquist, you know. I did a few nights with him on Blackpool Central Pier.”
“We’d be rubbish on Mr and Mrs,” said Sam.
“Well, we’re not married for one,” said Marvin.
She reached across the sofa and tapped him with her foot. “I meant we don’t have other halves.”
“You had that Rich for a while,” he said.
“A while was long enough.”
“And I had, um, you know…”
“My mum?”
“That’s the one!”
“Anyway, you and Linda would have been better on Mr and Mrs than you and mum.”
Marvin looked scandalised. “I can assure you that nothing ever happened—”
“I meant,” she cut in loudly before he could embarrass her with any protestations about whatever sexual or romantic antics did or did not go on between him and his former magician’s assistant. “I meant you knew each other better than any other married couple.”
He tilted his head and considered it. “You stuff a woman inside a box and chop her in half every Saturday night for fifteen years, you kind of get to know each other.”
“Exactly. What was her favourite flower?”
“Self-raising.”
Sam snorted. “Where was she most ticklish?”
Marvin paused in thought, then chuckled darkly but said nothing. Sam grunted and sipped her gimlet. The homemade celery bitters didn’t taste half bad, although that possibly said more about her personal standards than her cocktail making skills.
“Speaking of partners, Delia tells me you ought to ask out that young detective. You know – the lanky one.”
“Bloody hell. Are you guys in cahoots?”
“Seemed a nice lad.”
“A full foot taller than me.”
“If it starts raining, he’d know two minutes before anyone else. Handy.”
“I don’t need a boyfriend.”
Marvin laughed. “You know, that night the feller from the bank came over, Tel—”
“Tez.”
“—Tez, right. I swear you thought I was trying to set you up with him.”
“No, I didn’t,” she said quickly, burying her face in her drink.
“Ah,” said Marvin, expelling a heavy sigh. “We small families are fragile things. And I’m not going to be around forever.”
“Heart and lungs of a young man, you said,” she said.
“It’ll be a quiet Christmas with just the two of us.”
“A cheap Christmas,” she corrected. “Could do to be a bit cheaper.”
“I’m earning again,” he pointed out.
“One afternoon with the oldiewonks is not going to settle all our debts.”
“My debts.”
She shook her head. The wind was picking up outside. “Christmas always costs. Even when you try to do nothing.”
“We’ve already got a turkey.”
“A murder victim.”
“Buy some sprouts and a figgy pudding and we’re sorted, surely.”
“Oh, you wait,” said Sam. “The costs will mount. They always do.”
Marvin licked his lips and pulled a string of celery from the edge of the glass.
51
The Lucky Strike arcade on Skegness promenade was three floors of video games, coin cascades, pool tables, ball pools and ticket-spewing games machines. A hundred dinky game tunes competed with and nullified each other; a thousand lights merged into a background Christmas twinkle. Polly could understand how other people, particularly of her age, would find it an appalling sensory mess. But in truth, there was a distilled sense of child-like wonder to the place that touched her soul sufficiently to make it all bearable. Besides, the café-restaurant on the first floor had quite possibly the finest views in the town.
From the table she shared with Strawb and Jacob, the view encompassed the promenade, the compass rockery garden and, in the spaces visible between Carnage Hall and the seafront fairground, the beach and the sea. The few dog-walkers on the wintry beach were individual specks of colour. Beyond, the North Sea was nearly the same grey as the sky. The row of wind farm turbines out to sea were like a row of white stitches, holding the horizon together.
Jacob looked round to the window, and the Tower Esplanade which ran down to the sea between shuttered fish and chip shops and donut stands. “She should be here by now,” he muttered.
‘She’ was Margaret who had gone to collect a vital component of Polly’s plan.
“It’s a fair walk to the boat yard,” said Strawb, who had ordered and devoured most of a plate of scampi and chips during Margaret’s absence.
“So it’s her boat,” said Polly.
“Her husband’s,” said Strawb. “Pat. But he’s been dead … ooh, years.”
“Fifteen years,” said Jacob. His eyes tick-tocked from side to side for a moment. “And eight months.”
“So, I guess it’s her boat now,” said Strawb. “We’ve been out on it a few times, ’aven’t we, Jakey?”
“It’s an impressive cruiser,” Jacob nodded. “Six berth. Could get you to Europe and back, easy.”
Strawb pushed his plate a little closer to Polly. “Go on, have a chip.”
“I’m watching my figure,” she said, taking one anyway.
“You need facking feeding up, girl,” said Strawb, and squeezed her knee under the table.
“I shall be performing soon,” said Polly in a stiff, received pronunciation tone, like she was a ballet dancer preparing for her big debut. Butterflies fluttered in her stomach. She was feeling pre-show nerves, days before the planned event. “I must look my best for my performance.”
“You’ll be amazing,” said Strawb.
Jacob opened his notebook. “We should check the details again.”
“Put that bladdy thing away. She knows what she’s doing.”
“No,” said Polly. “I’m happy to go over it. Helps with the nerves.”
There had been days of planning and preparation. Polly had been past James Huntley’s house half a dozen times in the past week alone. He lived alone in a two-bedroomed bungalow in Beckett Close. The house backed onto Beresford Field park and had an attached garage, a rarity in this day and age, rarer still that Huntley kept his car in it. It was a quiet close, mostly working families, and all but deserted for much of the day.
Jacob had magicked Huntley’s work rota from somewhere. School Christmas holidays began on the twentieth of the month. There would be more people in the close from then on. There were three weekdays between now and then in which Huntley would not be at work during the day. Three windows of opportunity.
“I’ve got most of my equipment,” said Polly. “Did I show you these?” She took a set of closed handcuffs from her handbag and placed them carefully on the table.
“You got a key?” said Strawb.
Polly shook her head, then pinched and twisted the lock. The cuff sprang open.
“Trick handcuffs. I think Mr Marvellous was in a hurry to pack up after the hoo-hah. These were under the curtain by the window. I’m surprised they didn’t find them while sweeping up the glass from the broken skylight. I’ve still got the costume as well. He didn’t remember to ask for it back.”
“You looked proper dazzling in that,” said Strawb.
“I looked wonderfully preposterous,” she said. “I wish I had one of those head dresses with the ostrich feather plumes. Oh, but I do have some fans.” She produced two lacey Spanish fans from her handbag. She felt a bit like Mary Poppins and would have liked to whip out a standard lamp or a pot plant next.
“What are the fans for?” said Jacob.
“A bit of distraction,” she said and snapped one open in front of her face.
&nbs
p; Jacob consulted his notebook. “They are not on the list,” he said sternly.
“Give her a chance to facking improvise,” said Strawb.
Jacob’s face twisted unhappily. “Improvisation is for people who do not plan adequately. The list is clear. Bicycle, yes. Handcuffs, yes. Costume, yes. Cake, Polly will buy from the supermarket. The kazoo we have. The bottles of alcohol will be acquired from a corner shop out of town. Duct tape. There is a list and we stick to it.”
“Put fans on the bottom,” said Strawb.
“Please,” said Polly.
Jacob looked truly pained, but eventually relented and added ‘fans (2)’ to the bottom of the list in his notebook. “We have to consider all eventualities,” he said, still smarting. “What if he puts up a fight?”
“Then he will have attacked a defenceless doddery old woman in his own home,” said Polly. “He won’t.”
“What if the car won’t start? What if it’s out of petrol?”
“Who puts a car with no petrol in a garage?” said Strawb.
“I will take a small cannister of petrol with me and leave it with the bike in Beresford Field.”
“Very well,” said Jacob and made a further note.
“Oi oi,” said Strawb softly, nodding to the café area entrance.
Margaret had entered, removing the scarf she had put on to protect her hair against the blustery winds outside. She stopped a serving girl.
“Tea,” she said, then looked across at the table. “For four of us.” The girl started to protest but Margaret was having none of it. “Quick as you can,” she said before joining them. She passed Polly a carrier bag as she sat. “Took me an age to find. Will it suit?”
Polly looked inside at the snorkel and visor. It was large and chunky. The thick rubber strap looked reassuringly sturdy.
“Why my Pat thought anyone would want to go snorkelling in Skegness is quite beyond me,” said Margaret.
“It’s perfect,” said Polly.
Margaret touched one of the folded fans on the table. “Fans?”
“A late addition to the plan,” said Jacob testily.
“A bit of creative finessing is to be admired,” said Margaret.
The weather worsened as they drank their tea and they agreed to the luxury of taking a taxi back to Otterside, even though it was scarcely a mile. At Polly’s request, they made a detour inland to Wickenby Way and pulled up outside a three-bedroomed semi-detached. The estate agent’s Sold sign was still in the front garden.
“Are ya getting out?” asked the taxi driver.
Polly looked at the half drawn curtains. A figure passed by the window briefly, not full adult height. Jack or Iris, she couldn’t tell. She imagined toys scattered across the Axminster carpet, a house full of life that she would have invited in if she’d been allowed.
“No,” she said. “You can drive on.”
52
Hilde stood next to Ragnar. He had summoned a meeting of the Odinsons.
“Seems like there’s more mead than usual, farfar,” she said casually, her voice lower than the drumming of the rain on the roof.
“Aye. It’s a useful persuader,” said Ragnar, looking out across the crowd. “We’ll give ’em a few minutes to sup up. You drinking yourn?”
“Eventually,” she said.
He eyed her suspiciously. “Wondered if taking a job with that Delia woman had turned you Saxon.”
“Being a Saxon isn’t an infectious disease.”
“Don’t believe a word of it.”
The mead hall was more crowded than usual. It was called the mead hall because mead shed didn’t have the same ring to it. The benches were crowded together in the centre, because planks of oak were stacked around the edges. Steam rose from those closest to the open fire at the centre of the hall. The hall stank of woodsmoke and the dense comforting fug that was the natural smell of the Odinson clan.
Dozens of Hilde’s relatives jostled on the benches, exchanging gossip and passing bottles around. Hilde was proud to see everyone had brought their goblets. One of her earliest projects, after she had first built herself a lathe at the age of twelve, was to turn chunks of wood into goblets for everybody. Ragnar had now firmly embedded wooden goblets into the Odinson tradition, and insisted they were brought along for any mead-based gathering. He had the largest, most ornate goblet. He held it high and addressed the crowd.
“Has tha all got tha goblets charged? We drink to the beginnings of a new era for t’ Odinsons.” Everyone raised their goblets in a solemn toast. “When we tek to the seas, we’ll go where we please, when we please. ’Tis the Viking way. None of this blether about Saxon licences and insurance, like with the blummin’ cars.”
Hilde was fairly certain there would be licences and insurance for boat-related activities, but she knew better than to interrupt her farfar.
“We can fish! We can travel abroad as we like, in the true Viking way. We’ll do all of this in a craft built of Odin’s sacred oak, with a fearsome dragon’s head to strike fear and awe in the hearts of all as lay eyes on her.” There was a cheer at this. The mead was working its magic. “But there’s work to be done, to mek this a reality. Who’s in?”
There was another cheer from the crowd. Hilde stepped forward.
Ragnar held up a hand. “In a moment, Hilde will explain how we will build this ship and what help we need. First though, I want to read out some of the suggestions you’ve all made for this project.”
The suggestion box. This was a new thing. One of the Odinsons had been somewhere and seen the idea. Either prison or the council offices; Hilde couldn’t remember. She was surprised that Ragnar had agreed so readily. He pulled a sheaf of papers from his pocket.
“So, none of these are signed. All anonymous like. This one says ‘I’ve heard that boats can be built quickly and cheaply with fibre glass. Why don’t we do that?’” Ragnar looked up from the paper. “Well, I’ll address that one. I reckon I already mentioned Odin’s sacred oak. We want some pride in this ship on ours, don’t we? Now, I’m not an unreasonable man, and I think we can do a few modernisations, but oak is what it’s going to be built from, and that’s the end of it.”
Ragnar looked fiercely round the room, daring anyone to speak up, but there was silence. He pulled out the next paper.
“Ah, interesting idea. This one says ‘Why not put an outboard motor on each oar, so’s the craft can go a bit faster?’ Seems like a popular idea, that one.” He looked across at Hilde.
Hilde leaned across to see the paper. As she expected, the careful writing was in the runic script that Ragnar favoured. He was fooling nobody. “We can look at some ideas for making it go faster,” she said, “but this one is just not going to work. It will de-stabilise the boat, and don’t get me started on how dangerous it could—”
“So, in summary, we’ll think about it,” said Ragnar. “Now we have one final idea. This one says ‘Can we have a glass bottom in the ship so we can look at the fishes as we travel along?’.” There was a series of appreciative ‘Oohs’ from the crowd.
“Now, I’m just going to repeat,” shouted Ragnar above the excited chatter. “This will be made from the sacred wood of Odin, not the sacred glass of Odin. Do I mek meself clear?”
“As a functional improvement,” said Hilde, thinking on her feet, “I think Odin would always approve of increased visibility.”
Ragnar scowled at her. She could tell he was teetering on the brink of reprimanding her for suspected mockery of Odin’s most famous injury.
“Now, tha knows Odin lost an eye to gain knowledge,” he said. “But happen tha’s right. We can have some portholes or summat.” The crowd relaxed, pleased at this. “Now young Hilde’s going to tell us all about the jobs as need doing. We’ll all need to do our bit, so pay attention.”
Hilde smiled around at the rows of faces. “We’ll be building the ship with the clinker technique. It’s what the Vikings used.”
A hand went up, the trademark rollup b
etween the knuckles.
“Yes, Yngve?”
“Why’s it called clinker?”
Hilde knew the answer to this. “We’re going to be hearing a lot of clinking while we build this ship. Each nail we use to fasten t’boat together needs a hundred hammer bashes to fix it in place.”
“Cool!” There were murmurs of delight from around the hall. All Odinsons loved the idea of hitting things with a hammer. Hilde could almost hear the cogs turning in her farfar’s mind. He was sure to pick up on—
“Hammer work is a sacred honour!” bellowed Ragnar. “I throw down a challenge to the best of you. Go out into the world and come back with a hammer. When we start work, Hilde will show you where your efforts are needed and then you will each fulfil your personal quest. Select your tool with care, as there will be a reckoning at the end. We will bestow the blessing of mighty Thor upon the best hammer-wielding warrior amongst you.”
Hilde was filled with admiration. She had lots more detail about construction techniques to share with the group, but it very much seemed as though they didn’t care about that. They did care about hitting things with hammers and her clever farfar had just turned it into a competition. She would need to channel the enthusiasm, but she had all of the labour that she’d need to build the longship. She briefly wondered if the people of Skegness might notice the inevitable rash of hammer thefts that was about to hit them. Hopefully not, if everyone managed to keep their heads and be discreet.
53
On the morning of the planned murder, Polly bumped into Alison Duncliffe on the ground floor corridor. Polly must have walked past her several times on any given morning but today, as she prepared to avenge Rachel Duncliffe’s death, it felt abruptly significant. Staged even.
“Alison,” said Polly.
“Polly,” said Alison.
Was that a sadness in Alison’s eyes? A welling of emotion? Did Alison know what was about to happen? Had one of the social committee told her? Or was it just Polly’s imagination?
