by Heide Goody
“Ah, so when you spill gravy down yourself you can whip out a spare,” said Delia. “It beats wearing a bib.”
“Not quite what I meant,” said Sam with a sideways glance.
60
When there was a knock at the front door of Duncastin’ that evening, Sam looked to her dad. “Carol singers?”
“Dah, you beat me to it,” he said.
She pushed herself out of the living room armchair. “I don’t know if I should feel proud or horrified. You’ve turned me into a mini-you.”
“You should be so lucky,” he grunted.
“Oh, well, this reminds me of the time I shared a wimpy burger with Larry Grayson in nineteen seventy-three…” she warbled in a silly voice as she walked to the door.
It wasn’t carol singers.
“Detective Camara,” said Sam. “What a nice surprise.”
He shrugged, which was quite an expressive gesture with those angular shoulders and long arms.
“Not nice?” she said.
“Couldn’t say. May I…?”
She stepped back to let him in. He involuntarily stooped to get through the front door.
“Get them to sing Good King Wenceslas!” Marvin called from the lounge.
“I can’t. It’s DC Camara,” she called back.
“Right,” said Marvin. “Doesn’t he know the words?”
“We’re in a festive mood, by which I mean silly, and we haven’t even started drinking yet. You like one?”
“Ah, no,” he said, hand raised. “I’m still on duty.”
“This is a formal call?”
There was a deep, pensive air about him. “I need to talk to you about a body we’ve found.”
“Greg?”
“James Huntley.”
The name meant nothing to her.
“Actually, I’ll take a tea if you’re offering one,” he said.
“Sure.”
He waited until she’d filled the kettle and put it on. “A local man. Very local to you. Just off Beresford Avenue. He was found in his garage, killed by carbon monoxide fumes from his car.”
“A suicide?”
“Accident, probably. The car had rolled back, pinning his legs. There was an astonishing amount of alcohol in his system.”
“Christ.”
“Yeah. I knew of him. Had met him. There was a drink driving incident up towards Ingoldmells a few years back. The car rolled into a dyke. A passenger drowned. Alison Duncliffe up at Otterside was the dead girl’s mum.”
Sam put tea bags in the pot for the three of them. “The Otterside connection,” she mused.
Camara shook his head. “In a town like Skeg, and a retirement place like Otterside with a hundred residents, you’re going to find a link between the residents and any person you’d care to name in the town.”
“So, you’ve come to speak to me because … I’m a good listener? What?”
“In truth, I just wanted to pick your dad’s brains about these.” Camara held a pair of handcuffs sealed in a clear plastic evidence bag. “We found these in Huntley’s house. Just discarded and to one side.”
“Handcuffs.”
Camara twisted them through the plastic and a cuff sprang open. “Trick handcuffs. American import. Not many of them about. Magician’s handcuffs.” He said these last words heavily and distinctly. “Do you mind if I…?”
He made to go to the lounge. Sam instinctively wanted to leap up and bar his way, demanding he produce a warrant, even though that was utterly foolish. She followed him through with a hurriedly made pot of tea.
Camara explained himself patiently to Marvin, the background to his visit and the presence of a pair of stage handcuffs in a dead man’s house. Marvin asked to look at them. Camara asked him to not remove them from the bag.
“Yes, stage handcuffs. Good ones. None of that cheap mail order rubbish,” said Marvin. “Was the man a magician?”
“No. There are, however, marks on his wrists to indicate he was wearing them shortly before he died. Did you know a James Huntley, Marvin?”
Sam watched her dad do a good five second impression of someone searching their memory just so the detective could see he was trying to be helpful, then he shook his head.
“Do you own such a pair of handcuffs?” Camara tried to keep his tone light.
“I have done,” Marvin said readily. “At least two pairs. Bought them from Tannen’s magic shop. That’s New York.”
“Do you still have them?”
“I might have used a set like these recently. I’ve got a couple of boxes of props.”
“A couple?” said Sam, scoffing lightly.
Marvin scoffed back. “My villainous daughter keeps trying to sell off my old memorabilia.”
“That’s tat to you and me,” said Sam. “And I’m not selling anything you don’t want me to.”
“Not sure it feels like that,” said Marvin in good humour. “Most of it went to Delia’s junk shop.”
“She doesn’t like it being called a junk shop.”
“So,” suggested Camara, “these could actually have been yours?”
“Sorry?”
“Sold through Delia’s shop. That’s the one opposite the pier, right?”
Marvin reached for the tea Sam had poured. “Constable, is this evidence in a crime?”
“It’s possible.”
“Am I a suspect?”
“We’re just trying to find out what happened.”
“Are you going to tell me not to leave the country in the next seventy two hours?” He was now hamming it up like a bad actor.
Camara laughed. “Is that likely?”
“We’re being flown out to a luxury oil rig in a few days.”
Camara frowned. “Really?”
“It’s a gas platform,” said Sam. “Converted.”
The frown deepened. “Really?”
“Do you need to take my fingerprints, officer?” said Marvin.
“No, that’s all right. There are no fingerprints on the handcuffs anyway.”
Sam held her tea to warm her hands but did not drink. “That’s unusual, isn’t it?”
“Not a single print on the handcuffs? Not even a partial?” he said. “That’s very unusual, yes.”
61
Bernard Babcock believed in preparedness and the rewards of preparedness.
A career in the British Army, from infantry training through to the 33rd Engineers Regiment, had shown him that those who did not prepare had no one but themselves to blame. A badly packed pack, an unserviced engine, a doorway not checked – any of these could cost you big style, and it’d be all your own fault. When the failure to determine if that little Belfast girl was carrying a weapon or not had cost a good friend his life, Bernard had decided it was time to prepare for the long term, and a long and happy retirement.
After twenty years in the army and ten years as a quarrying engineer, his preparations had paid off. His retirement nest egg had bought him an apartment at Otterside, with the funds to enjoy each and every day as it came. A morning fag, a decent fry up, a chance to catch up on his suntan, a snooze under the open pages of The Sun, and a few beers in the evening. That bloody noisy turkey had put a dent in his perfectly happy retirement for a few weeks, but the committee had sorted that out and it was back to business as usual.
If that snooty Margaret and her cronies needed a return favour it was no problem to Bernard. Just a little side project, something he could squeeze in between meals and sessions under a sunlamp. Plus it allowed him to flex some of those creative skills he’d honed over his long career. Once he’d devised a plan, he went round and knocked on his neighbour’s door. Polly was a game bird, but had made it clear that she didn’t like the sight of too much bronzed flesh, so Bernard made a special effort. Before he went round he tied up his dressing grown (or ‘leisure robe’ as he liked to think of it).
When Polly opened the door, she was smiling, laughing even, her head turned to someone within. Berna
rd heard the fading sounds of a man’s voice, Strawb perhaps. The smile faded somewhat when Polly saw it was Bernard at her door. She consciously straightened her cardigan and gave him the politest smile.
“Am I interrupting?” he said.
“Yes,” she said genially.
“Right you are,” he said. “I wondered if you could help me with these.” He held out a bunch of printed sheets.
Polly gave them a confused inspection. “These are e-cigarettes,” she said.
“Yes, they are,” he nodded. “I was thinking perhaps it was time I cut down on the old fags and switched to something a bit healthier.”
“About time?” The critical up-and-down she gave him seemed to suggest the time to cut down had long since passed.
Bernard ignored the insult. “I saw that your – it’s your niece, isn’t it? – had one and I thought it looked the dog’s bollocks. I wondered if you knew which one it was.”
Polly looked at the papers again. “Out of these?”
“These are the top sellers,” he said. “Researched them myself.”
“Did you not read any reviews?”
“I thought it might be this one.”
“No. Hers has got these cartridges that load in the middle. They click in.”
“Ah.” He shuffled his sheets. “Like this one? Or this one?”
“That one.”
“Definitely?”
She nodded. “They’re all the same. All quite ridiculous.”
“Better than dying.”
Bernard didn’t appreciate the look she gave him, but he was capable of rising above such things. Besides, she’d change her tune when she realised what a favour he was doing for her.
Strawb said something from inside the apartment that Bernard didn’t catch. Polly blushed.
“Are we done?” she said. Before he could answer, she closed the door.
He returned to his own apartment. His kitchenette table had been turned into a little workbench. Wires and components sat in a rack. There was a little plastic bag of red Tovex, a water-gel explosive. He’d treated himself to a kilo of the stuff as a retirement present from his quarry job. He’d barely used any since then, and he’d need no more than a teaspoon for this job.
He looked at the e-cigarette Polly had pointed out. “It’ll work,” he said.
62
Margaret recognised the man in reception as a police detective, specifically as the one who had brought Polly’s great niece into the south lounge on the day of the magic show. The man was at least six and a half feet tall and gawkily angular with it, like a teenager going through an embarrassing growth spurt. Such a man was easily recognised. Margaret suspected he didn’t get to do much undercover work.
Police visiting Otterside wasn’t something to be specifically worried about, but Margaret was curious and idly followed him down to the café bar, where he spotted and made a bee-line for Alison Duncliffe. She was sitting in the wicker chairs by the French windows, drinking a lurid-coloured smoothie through a straw.
As the detective approached Alison respectfully, practically stooped in deference, Margaret moved to the bar.
“Another one of those smoothies for Alison there,” she told the serving girl. “And a snowball for me.”
It was perhaps too early in the day to be indulging in cocktails, but it was Christmas Eve for goodness sake, and if she was buying a joyless vegetable smoothie for Alison, Margaret felt it only right that she should balance things up.
As the girl mixed two drinks, Margaret watched the conversation. Alison had become quite still as the detective spoke to her. Relaying the facts of James Huntleys death, presumably. Quite possibly revealing nothing that hadn’t already been reported in the local papers. Margaret watched their body language. Yes, the detective was piling on the sympathy – what painful memories this must bring back for Alison, condolences once again on the death of her daughter, apologies that the police hadn’t been able to provide the family with justice at the time, hope that this might bring some sort of closure to the matter. Empty and meaningless words. Alison nodded but said almost nothing.
But soon he would start to ask questions. Clearly the death was being treated as suspicious.
Margaret had placed herself at the bar where Alison could clearly see her. Alison glanced her way a couple of times. Margaret saw her role as a comforting presence, but also a reminder to Alison that she was part of a wider enterprise; that others were relying on her.
Margaret paid for the drinks and sipped her snowball.
The police officer asked Alison something. Alison went into an explanation, offering the detective the residents card attached to her key ring. She glanced to Margaret once more. The detective caught the action and looked round.
Margaret was ready and took both drinks over to the table. “I didn’t want to interrupt while you were chatting,” she said, as blandly as possible. “It looked serious. A Lean Green Detoxing Machine for you, Alison, wasn’t it?”
Alison took the drink and a look passed between them. Margaret made sure that look said, ‘Stay strong, he knows nothing.’ Margaret didn’t sit, but she didn’t move away. She stood, waiting, impressing upon the detective that this situation was fleeting, the conversation soon to be over.
“Mrs Duncliffe,” said the detective, “this card isn’t yours.”
“Isn’t it?”
“It belongs to a Polly Gilpin.”
“Oh, we must have got them swapped at some point,” said Alison. “But even if it’s not on my record, you can ask anyone who was there. I’m always at the Pilates in the morning and the guided meditation in the afternoon.”
“Of course,” he said and returned the card. “Make sure Ms Gilpin gets her card back.”
He looked up at Margaret. Was that irritation in his face? Good.
“Mrs Duncliffe, we will be conducting a thorough investigation. Obviously, if we learn anything, I will personally make sure you’re informed.” Perfectly hollow words, a perfect match for the hollow effort the police had made in investigating Rachel Duncliffe’s death.
Alison said her thanks to him nonetheless.
The detective nodded in acknowledgement at Margaret. She gave him a thin and fleeting smile. Margaret watched him walk out and then took his seat.
“Are you holding up?”
Alison nodded and in lieu of words or any outward expression of emotion, took an overlong suck on the smoothie.
There was a noise from the corridor just outside the bar. Polly Gilpin stormed into view, turned and said loudly. “They’re not even coming now! Not at all.”
“Okay, sweetheart,” said Strawb, approaching, reaching to put his hands on her shoulders.
“I’ll not fucking do it,” she spat. “I’ll not be cut off like this! I’ll not go without a fight!”
Seeing that a good three quarters of the café bar were looking at her now, Polly threw her arms up dramatically and stormed away.
Strawb was about to follow when he spotted Margaret. He wove through the bar, apologising for the scene, offering jokey conciliatory remarks to the more affronted residents, until he reached Margaret.
“The facking niece,” he said simply. “Hello, Alison. That’s a bladdy colourful drink you’ve got there. Looks like someone put Kermit the Frog in the blender.”
“I don’t normally have more than one,” said Alison.
Margaret gave Strawb a questioning look. He saw it and nodded.
“The niece isn’t even coming to see her before Christmas. Boxing Day. Can you believe it?”
“Good,” said Margaret. When Strawb frowned she added, “It means we were right. She’s a worthy target. I will see how Bernard is getting on with the preparations.”
Alison pushed aside her smoothie. “You know, I think I actually need something stronger today.”
Strawb whistled and gestured to the woman at the bar.
63
Bernard found Jacob in the restaurant, the notebook he always
carried with him open on the table and several sheets of writing paper before him. He appeared deep in thought, so Bernard gave him a respectful second or two before sitting down opposite him.
“You busy?”
Jacob blinked as though returning from a distant place. “Yes. I am. I am writing a letter to Ravensburger, suggesting they should offer a service by which customers can order up single jigsaw pieces which they have lost.”
“Still looking for those missing ones?” said Bernard. He’d seen the posters Jacob had put up.
“I’ve gone on to suggest that, if they are unwilling to offer such a service, it would suggest they want customers to lose pieces so that they are forced to buy entirely new jigsaws. A scandalous business practice.”
“That’s great,” said Bernard uninterested. “I need your help. I need something specific and I think you’re exactly the man to help.”
Jacob’s nodded, conceding that Bernard was probably right and he set down his pen.
“I need a halfpence piece,” said Bernard.
“A halfpenny?”
“Uh-huh.” Bernard held up his fingers, a short distance apart as though holding one.
“They went out of circulation in 1984,” said Jacob.
“Is that so?”
“It is.”
“But you don’t happen to have one lying around?”
“I’m not a hoarder, Bernard. Why, may I ask, do you want one?”
“I need a thin metal disc, no wider than twenty mil. It needs to fit inside this.” He held up a short metal tube.
“And what is that?” said Jacob.
“It’s the heating element and battery compartment for a VapourMax e-cigarette. Do you know what an explosively formed penetrator is?” said Bernard.
Jacob gave it some thought. “I could speculate. It’s a shell or bullet formed by an explosion.”
“Exactly. A big one took out several mates of mine in Yugoslavia, back in the day. You get a concave metal disc and pack it in front of a short-barrelled metal cylinder.”
