Wink Murder

by Ali Knight

  Lex is warming to his theme and the crowd listens intently. ‘Find me and the terms and conditions on my website lexwoodisinnocent.com and on YouTube.’

  ‘God love him, he’s a cocky bastard,’ Paul says, shaking his head in wonder and pulling out his phone.

  ‘This must have been very hard for him,’ I add. ‘He looks really angry.’

  ‘Lex just feels popular culture, it’s in his blood.’

  We watch as Lex continues. ‘I want to find Melody Graham’s killer. I demand that this be done. I will not rest until this is done.’

  I stare at the TV as a crowd swarms around Lex, questions being hurled from all sides. ‘This investigation is in chaos, isn’t it?’ I turn to Paul. ‘The police don’t really have a suspect, do they?’

  As if responding to what I’ve just said, a reporter, head ducking to move her hair out of her face in the strong wind, begins: ‘Detectives in this investigation may well be feeling uncomfortable this morning as Lex Wood, the second suspect in the murder of Melody Graham, has been released without charge. Gerry Bonacorsi spoke to police at length yesterday but is today still a free man. It seems the lack of physical and DNA evidence is hampering attempts to bring this high-profile case to a swift and satisfactory conclusion. As yet’ – she’s given up all attempts to control her hair and is now standing almost side on to the camera – ‘police are no closer to understanding why Melody Graham died, or who killed her.’

  ‘Daddy, I want a huggle,’ Ava says, swinging on the living-room door. ‘Daddy . . .’

  The siren call of his daughter finally pulls Paul away from his phone and he looks down indulgently. ‘Of course, baby.’ He picks Ava up by her hands and swings her high into the air where her squeal of delight ricochets off the ceiling. He drops her and catches her round the waist, twists her upside down and tickles her so that he’s holding a giggling banshee, squirmy as a bag of snakes. He places her head down on the floor and she folds herself upright.

  ‘Again! Again!’

  ‘I have to go, sweetie.’

  She’s standing on tippy-toes, rapture bathing her face. ‘Please, Dad, again!’ Ava’s adoration of her father is complete. I make a note to try to remember this moment for ever, because I have no memories of my own father doing that with me.

  ‘If Ava is very good, we’ll play sharks when I get home.’ He kisses the top of her head and rocks her from side to side, looking up at me. He reluctantly pulls away and heads for the door as Ava hops from one foot to the other in anticipation.

  ‘If Lex calls here, tell him to ring me immediately,’ Paul says, leaving the house without kissing me. Our recent arguments have resulted in strange vacuums opening up between us; we creep around each other, shrinking from accidental physical contact. His body and its rumbles and smells are suddenly foreign to me and I can’t recall them even if I try. He’s started wearing a T-shirt to bed, nakedness seeming inappropriate now. At the end of the day we climb into our king-size and cling to our edges like mariners to flotsam after a shipwreck. It’s only in my long, sleepless hours that I find him curled around me, his nose in the gap between my shoulder blades. He’s up before I wake in the mornings.

  I nod as I pick up my mobile, beeping with an incoming text. I’m expecting it to be Eloide as I’ve already had three this morning, but it’s from Lex. ‘You will meet me today. Don’t tell Paul.’

  Sadness steals over me. Their friendship is cracking, their business partnership could soon follow. Josh thumps down the stairs, his bottom lip a jutting, moody line. I reach out to ruffle his hair because I just can’t resist.

  ‘Get off me, Mum,’ he shoves my hand roughly away.

  It’s all change on the chessboard of life and we must take up new positions. If Lex has been released someone else will be arrested soon. Lex wants me to meet him, but there’s somewhere I’ve got to go first – work.

  A sharp pain jars up my leg. ‘Ow! What did you do that for!’

  Josh has just punched me, hard. ‘You never listen, do you! I want to walk to school on my own. I don’t want to go with you.’

  I always knew that, one day, he would ask me this. Another tether holding him to childhood cut. But I hadn’t realised how much it would hurt. ‘OK, that’s something we can talk about with Dad tonight.’ I pause. ‘Josh, has anyone said anything nasty to you at school about—?’

  ‘Just leave me alone!’ he screams.

  I guess that’s a yes.

  24

  Rude language is called blue, but red would be a better colour. Livvy is so angry she’s turned puce and is ranting at whoever has the misfortune to have to speak. It’s our weekly editorial meeting and we’re discussing how to respond to Melody’s death. None of our suggestions can lighten Black Cloud’s mood.

  ‘OK, we’re going to divvy up the examination of Melody’s life. She was a pretty girl so we want lots of visual on her. Shaheena, get on to her old friends, search Facebook, all that stuff, and get some clips of her we can use.’

  ‘Who’s covering the police angle?’ Matt, a researcher, dares ask.

  ‘Colin of course!’ Colin is the former Scotland Yard detective that gets to cosy up to Marika on the leather sofa when we need technical assistance. ‘We’ll use Colin’s contacts and beg them to release any CCTV footage of Melody that they have. ‘Now, what’s the update on Melody’s family?’

  Shaheena has the unenviable task of disappointing the boss. She shakes her head. ‘It’s a no go, I’m afraid.’ Livvy lets out a long sigh. ‘Her parents don’t want to have anything to do with the programme—’

  ‘Their daughter invented it!’

  Shaheena shrugs. ‘I’ve got a cousin who’s keen to appear, but she’s a bit tangential.’

  Livvy is tapping a cheap biro on the side of her desk. Her irritation is fanning out in waves across the room. ‘Hopeless.’ There’s a pause. ‘So . . . on to Lex and Gerry. That the owner of the company producing this programme has been questioned about knocking off the creator of this programme is something I need like a hole in the head . . .’ Before Livvy can begin casting around the room for someone else to direct her disappointment at, the door scrapes open. ‘Marika!’

  An intoxicating smell wafts in with Marika. She’s dressed in an outsize Gore-tex jacket with bobbles and toggles in odd places and from which her tiny suntanned wrists and hands protrude. ‘Hello everyone! Sorry I’m late, but the boat was stuck in high winds.’

  ‘Thank God you’re here!’ Livvy lifts herself off her seat, beckoning Marika in with two hands.

  ‘I do apologise, being marooned on the Isle of White is no use to anyone.’ She places a waterproof holdall in the corner of the room and sits down. ‘It was blowing a force eight and we couldn’t leave the harbour. In the end I got a helicopter from Ventnor to Portsmouth, and simply got on the train to get here.’ She smiles most winningly. ‘No stress.’

  ‘Finally something to cheer!’ Black Cloud’s face splits into a rare grin. ‘We want you to interview Gerry Bonacorsi. They’re not charging him so he’s fair game. We’ve got to get him on the programme.’

  ‘I like it,’ Marika says calmly.

  ‘Despite the many hours of television coverage of him, he has rarely been interviewed – asked the hard questions. Take him out of his comfort zone, you might get something surprising.’

  ‘Got it,’ Marika adds.

  ‘There’s a problem,’ says Matt.

  ‘I don’t want to know about problems!’ Livvy snaps.

  ‘He’s in hiding after he was questioned by police. No one can get to him.’

  ‘We’ll get to him. We made him bloody famous, he owes us!’

  ‘Just get on to his agent—’ Marika adds kindly.

  ‘Um, he doesn’t have an agent,’ Matt replies. ‘He was living in south London but he’s done a bunk.’

  ‘That moronic, pea-brained whacko—’

  ‘Why not try the tabloids?’ Marika suggests, unfazed by this setback. ‘They’re bound to kno
w where he is. I’ll phone my editor friend, he’ll help us out.’

  ‘Great idea, Marika!’ Livvy’s clouds have dispersed, momentarily. ‘We need to get Gerry on this show. No ifs or buts. I want him found before we go live or I’m going to . . . I don’t know what I’m going to do but it won’t be pretty.’

  ‘Isn’t he dangerous?’ asks Shaheena. ‘I mean, even if we know where he is, he’s a convicted murderer and he resisted arrest when the police took him in. I read a theory that he may be killing people who made him famous on Inside-Out. It’s a something syndrome, I can’t remember the name.’ No one helps her out, but Shaheena continues. ‘Are we sure we want to approach him, even assuming we can find him?’

  ‘Oh for Pete’s sake!’ Livvy snorts. ‘Talk about carts before horses! Let’s find him first and then if we need to we can use extra protection when we do our persuading.’

  ‘I’d love to interview him,’ enthuses Marika. ‘He’s such a contradictory character. On one episode of Inside-Out I saw him request The Female Eunuch from the prison library! It had to come over from Holloway! We’ll talk feminism before we go on air. I wonder if he’s read any Betty Friedan?’

  Livvy looks alarmed. ‘Make sure that doesn’t bleed over into the interview. They’ll be turning off in droves.’

  Marika’s laugh is honey on toast. ‘Remember it takes a lot of education to look this stupid.’ Livvy’s laugh is more Marmite on Ryvita, but no less heartfelt.

  I risk a smile but it’s short-lived as Livvy turns to me, menace in her voice. ‘Kate, you’re sleeping with the enemy.’ All eyes bore into me.

  ‘Excuse me?’

  I’d made sure that my relationship to the boss wasn’t widely known.

  Livvy snorts at my gross stupidity. ‘You’re our eyes and ears into Forwood. Paul knows Lex better than anyone. Find at least something out we can use.’ I nod slowly and feel a blush of shame travelling across my cheeks at all the secrets I’m withholding.

  As the meeting ends and we gather up notebooks, pens and laptops I’m surprised by Marika asking me a question. ‘So you’re married to Paul Forman?’

  I nod. She lowers her heavy lashes as delicate eyebrows lift towards her blonde hairline. She nods with appreciation. I steel myself for yet another acolyte about to sing my husband’s praises. ‘Lucky him,’ she says and I want to gather up her pint-sized frame in my motherly arms, she’ll be as light and fluffy as candyfloss.

  I’m standing in a murdered woman’s living room, unsure whether I’m supposed to sit down. Mrs Graham was perfectly polite when I called and said I was from Forwood. She invited me over straight away, as if I were a friend popping in for coffee, but now I’m here awkwardness has taken over. It’s not a social call and my lunch hour is not really long enough to do the visit justice.

  ‘I’m glad you came today, I should have mentioned on the phone that Friday wouldn’t have been convenient. It’s the funeral. They’ve released the body.’

  I sit down. ‘I’m so sorry.’ Mrs Graham has pale skin and neat, ash-grey hair and is wearing mid-height stilettos and a red skirt suit. She doesn’t react to my condolences, staring at me in silence with large, dark eyes. She’s a bit unnerving. I’ll start to blabber if I’m not careful. ‘I brought you – or maybe this is more for your husband – something small.’ I reach out from the armchair and hand over a small package. ‘It’s a new variety.’

  ‘Roses.’ She smiles a little and shakes the packet so that the seeds knock against the paper binding. ‘How did you know?’

  ‘I only met Melody once, at a party at the Forwood offices. It was when she was putting the finishing touches to the format for Crime Time. We had a brief chat and I remember she said, “I’m as precious about my programme as my dad is about his roses.”’

  Mrs Graham’s smile widens. ‘It’s very sweet of you to remember, and to bring them.’

  ‘I chose the red because, well, because that’s the colour of the dress she was wearing that night.’

  When people ask me, I say I don’t know Melody, and technically that’s true. But the exposure to her that I’ve lacked I’ve made up for in my imagination. I was introduced to her by Sergei. ‘You must meet Melody Graham,’ he said. Paul had mentioned her often enough and I was intrigued. She smiled and giggled a lot and insisted on refilling my glass. Astrid touched her shoulder as she passed on the way to the kitchen. She seemed celebratory and social, unaware of how good the programme that she created was going to be, blind to how alluring she was. I was mesmerised as others were, by her age, her charm, her talent and the opportunities she was yet to take.

  Mrs Graham nods. ‘Red was her favourite colour.’ She touches her skirt. ‘We were very alike, Melody and me.’ She pauses. ‘It’s a shame Don’s not here. He’s on his walk. He needs a routine.’

  ‘I want to say that her work is very highly regarded. She was full of ideas.’

  Mrs Graham folds her hands in her lap and tucks her legs together like the Queen. ‘That was Melody. She was focused. All the cycling, the exercise gene, is Don’s.’

  On the wall beside my armchair is a succession of photos charting the Graham family’s formation, evolution and growth; happy times before the catastrophe. There are the black-and-white christening pictures, chaotic family gatherings, some 1980s hairdos and school photos against a blue backdrop with clouds. ‘Is that Melody?’ I point at an unsmiling girl in school uniform who’s about fifteen.

  Mrs Graham shifts in her seat. ‘Yes. It’s only up there because she liked it so much. She made a big fuss about not wanting to smile. “Pandering to the male gaze,” I think she said.’ She gives me a look. ‘She was always very opinionated. Don gave in of course, but truth be told I’ve never liked that picture. She looks sullen, which she was nothing like.’ Mrs Graham stands. Her voice softens for the first time. ‘That’s my favourite.’ She points to a photo of a young girl, probably aged about eleven, in shorts and a baggy T-shirt, running through shallow water. The picture is all about movement and joy, the girl is really sprinting with the energy of uncomplicated youth, a time before she got her own opinions and started to act on them.

  ‘She’s a very beautiful girl.’

  ‘You can use the past tense. We’re going to have to get used to it.’ She wipes her hands down her skirt and I sense a great effort being made to stop it all toppling over. ‘I’m not sure if you haven’t had a wasted journey coming here, the police took everything related to her work away with them. There’s very little left.’

  I follow her up to the stairs, wondering if Mrs Graham’s shocking matter-of-factness is the corset which stops her, literally, from falling apart. She takes the steps two at a time, as silent as a cat. ‘I identified the body. I knew Don couldn’t do it, but now they won’t let me alone.’

  ‘Who won’t?’

  ‘My family. It’s as if I’ve developed dementia overnight and I need round-the-clock care. My sister’s behind it all,’ she mimics a hysterical woman, ‘“She needs help, Don, help.”’ I don’t even like my sister, but now I have to endure daily visits from her or her ghastly children. Her daughter’s coming round soon, though ‘company’ is stretching the word. I spent my life trying to get away from my first family and build one more suited to me . . . perhaps you don’t understand that.’

  ‘I understand only too well, I’m afraid.’

  ‘Now they’re crowding around and all my years of effort have come to nothing.’

  ‘That’s one of the saddest things I’ve ever heard.’ It’s out of my mouth before I can stop it and I can’t judge if it’s inappropriate. Mrs Graham’s hit a nerve. I put years of effort into building my new family and I fear mine is about to crash and burn.

  ‘Here we are.’ She opens the door to one of the bedrooms without a pause and we are in Melody’s most private space. The walls are apple green and frame shelves filled with clothes, books, DVDs and files, a large 1970s desk with a black inlay top looks over the garden, a computer cable lays marooned;
I guess the police took her laptop away. A neon retro British Rail sign hangs on one wall, and there’s a Moroccan looking pouffe. The bed is a small double. I can’t look at it for long.

  ‘She was very tidy—’ I start, but Mrs Graham interrupts.

  ‘Melody? Entirely the opposite,’ she says, shaking her head. ‘She had box files and loads of notebooks piled around all over the place. The police could hardly get it all in the car. Once they’d gone I sorted her room out for her, one last time. It’s what a mother does. This is all that they left behind.’ She picks up a Milk Blue file and hands it to me. ‘You could call at the station and maybe they’d give you back what they’ve finished with.’ I open the file and find some old expenses receipts. My heart sinks and it’s hard to summon up even a thank-you. ‘Don can’t come in here. He starts to hyperventilate, poor man, but I like it. It smells of her.’

  ‘Do you have any idea who killed your daughter?’ Mrs Graham gives no indication that she’d even heard the question.

  ‘Do you want to see some of Don’s beloved roses? The early varieties are just beginning to bloom.’

  We head back downstairs and walk through a dining room that looks little used to some French doors that lead to the garden. Piles of neat paperwork and household bills are lain out across the table; the Guardian is beginning to form a tower on a sideboard. I notice a bulky, old-fashioned PC has taken up permanent residence at the head of the table. ‘Did Melody ever use that computer?’

  ‘Yes, she did. Lately she was using it a lot. She liked to have the cat on her lap when she worked, I think, and he likes it down here.’

  ‘Did the police look at this machine?’

  ‘They copied everything off it.’

  A thought strikes me. ‘So they copied the information rather than transferred it?’

  Mrs Graham shrugs. ‘I can’t really say. Don would know.’

  ‘Mrs Graham, do you mind if I take a look at some of the files on here? I’m sure it won’t take long.’ I’m steeling myself for her refusal or suspicion, but she seems only too happy to help.