by Jo Carnegie
Finally, the music was turned down and her eardrums breathed a sigh of relief. ‘Do you want a toke?’ asked Calypso, turning around and waving the joint in front of her. Camilla shook her head.
‘So you’re the middle Standington-Fulthrope,’ drawled Tizzy from the driver’s seat. ‘Mummy did the same deb season as your mother. Say Iona Fitzroy-Lambeth says hi. That was her name before she married Daddy,’ she explained.
‘Tizzy’s dad is like, the fifth Earl of Gloucester,’ said Calypso, taking a deep drag of the joint and blowing the smoke out lazily.
‘Fourth, you spaz,’ Tizzy corrected. She shuffled around in her seat. ‘Fuck, I am so wired about playing tonight. I can’t believe I got the 12 a.m. to 2 a.m. slot. That is, like, so freakin’ wicked.’
‘Tiz is, like, a totally wicked DJ,’ Calypso explained. ‘Plays under the name Blue Blood.’
‘And you’re, er, playing tonight, then?’ Camilla asked her.
‘Yah, at Zulu’s in Chelsea,’ replied Tizzy. She glanced over at Calypso. ‘Both HRHs are going; Harry texted me earlier.’
‘I thought we were going to Brixton?’ said Camilla.
‘We are,’ said Calypso. ‘Tiz is just giving us a lift into town; we’ll get a cab the rest of the way.’ She cranked up the music and sat back, putting an end to their conversation.
By now, the open country spaces of the motorway had given way to the grey sprawl of suburbia. It was nine o’clock, dusk settling over a jagged, luminous skyline. Negotiating traffic and taking short cuts down backstreets, they headed towards Chelsea. Tizzy pulled into a leafy wide street full of magnificent three-storey houses. She parked up outside one with white shutters on the windows and an imposing black front door with a gold knob in the middle of it. ‘My godmother lives here,’ she informed them breezily, ‘but she’s away in St Barts so I’m using her parking space.’
After making plans to meet up later, and flagging down a black cab, Calypso and Camilla headed for Brixton, climbing out on to the high street nearly forty-five minutes later. It was Thursday night and the place was heaving. Souped-up cars with even louder sound systems than Tizzy’s thundered past. Every bar was packed with young people drinking, smoking and partying. They all looked trendy, confident and completely unapproachable. Camilla was starting to feel like a fish out of water. There was a distinct edge to the atmosphere, like something could go off any moment. She shivered. Oh, what she’d do to be back in dear old Churchminster!
Calypso was on her mobile. ‘Yah, we’re nearly there, babe. We’ll just come straight to the club. Cool, see ya.’ She ended the call. ‘That was Sam, she’s in there already.’
They were off the main road now, walking down a badly lit street. ‘I don’t even know the name of this club, what is it?’ asked Camilla.
Calypso paused. ‘Pussy Galore,’ she said, and watched for her sister’s reaction.
‘Pussy Galore?’ echoed Camilla, recognition dawning. ‘You’re taking me to a gay club?’
Calypso linked arms with her. ‘Yah. Don’t look like that. I didn’t tell you because I knew you’d have a total freak and not come. No one’s going to bite your head off, you know.’
‘It’s not like that,’ protested Camilla. ‘I’ve got nothing against lesbians. It’s, er, just not really my scene.’ A vision of Sam’s bush flashed before her eyes.
Calypso winked at her. ‘It is tonight!’ They had reached a doorway with people queuing outside. A kitsch neon sign hanging above it read ‘Pussy Galore’ in loopy writing. A huge, menacing bouncer with a shaved head, and shoulders like a Russian shot putter was standing at the beginning of the line holding a clipboard. Calypso waltzed up. ‘Yah, we’re on Sam Devine’s list?’ She gave their names and the bouncer checked his list.
‘OK, you can go in,’ came the reply, in a surprisingly girlish voice. They headed down a long winding staircase, the sound of music getting louder, until eventually they reached a set of double doors, reverberating with the noise behind them.
‘Ready to party?’ asked Calypso, and pulled one open.
Instantly, Camilla was hit by a double whammy of lights and noise. They were in a large, square room with banquet-style seating all the way around. A long glass bar ran the entire length of the far wall, and a seventies-style flashing dance floor dominated the middle of the room. The walls, floor and ceiling were stark white, and pink strobe lights flashed intermittently against them.
The place was packed, and not a pair of testicles in sight. Gorgeous, sexily dressed women were bumping and grinding with each other on the dance floor. Two tiny, elfin-looking girls with matching pink hair were snogging right in front of Camilla. To her left, a sixteen-stone woman dressed in a latex cat suit was whipping the buttocks of the skinny, scantily clad woman she was parading around on a dog lead.
‘Babe, you made it!’ said a gruff voice. Sam was standing in front of them. Her short hair had been gelled into spikes, and she was holding a bottle of beer. She gave Calypso a lingering kiss on the lips and then pecked a completely taken-aback Camilla on the lips as well. Camilla thought she looked flushed and happy, like a different person. ‘So we’ve enticed you over to the dark side?’ Sam said wickedly to Camilla.
‘Ignore her,’ said Calypso, smiling, and grabbed her sister’s hand. ‘Let’s get some drinks in.’
On the way to the bar, they bumped into a gorgeous creature who looked like a cross between Ru Paul and Nefertiti. She shrieked: ‘Cally, babe, how are you?’
Calypso shrieked back, air-kissing her. ‘Crystal, this is my sister.’
The six-foot vision, dressed in a chain-mail mini-dress, looked Camilla up and down. ‘I can see good looks run in the family. You’re a doll, darling!’ she said with dramatic flamboyance. Camilla couldn’t help but giggle.
‘Thanks,’ she said, smiling at her.
‘Crystal’s, like, a top fashion muse for all the big designers,’ said Calypso as they manoeuvred their way towards the bar. ‘Totally bonkers, but she’s such a laugh. Let’s start off with shots, shall we?’
Fifteen minutes and three potent concoctions later, the alcohol had already gone to Camilla’s head. She had started to relax and take in her surroundings, rather than be terrified by them. They found Sam sitting at a table in the corner with three other girls. Calypso launched into introductions. ‘Guys, this is my sister, Camilla,’ she said, and they were greeted with hellos and hiyas from round the table.
‘I’m Penny, love your dress,’ said one, a cool-looking redhead in a silver bomber jacket. ‘This is Sadie,’ she continued, and the friendly looking blonde next to her smiled and raised her glass. ‘And Lola.’
‘Camilla, we’ve heard so much about you.’ Lola was a bewitchingly pretty Chinese girl with long dark hair that fell like a sheet down to her waist.
‘All good, I hope,’ Camilla joked, taking a sip of the cocktail she was holding. It was so strong her eyes started watering.
‘Of course!’ said Calypso mock-indignantly. ‘Now, you lot, my sister doesn’t get out much so we’re on a mission tonight. Let’s get hammered!’ They cheered and clinked glasses.
A few hours later, everything was turning into a blur for Camilla. They’d started playing drinking games and she’d lost count of the number of times she’d lost, downing one dubious shot after another. Her bum had been pinched four times on the way to the bar and a three-foot dwarf dressed in a Wonderbra and spaceman suit had tugged on her dress and asked if she was up for a threesome.
Now they were glugging vodka from a bottle Penny had bought, giggling hysterically as Lola recounted a disastrous date she’d been on with a fire-eater who had accidentally set fire to a pub chair whilst trying to impress her. Tears were rolling down Sadie’s face while Penny cackled and chain-smoked Benson & Hedges.
Camilla’s stomach hurt from laughing so much. She hadn’t had so much fun in ages. Everyone was well, so normal. What had she been expecting?
‘Is that an engagement ring I spy?’ asked
Lola, who had finished her story and was sitting next to her.
‘Yah, I’m getting married,’ sighed Camilla.
Lola eyed her curiously. ‘You don’t sound very happy about it.’
Before Camilla realized it, her eyes had filled up again with tears. ‘Oh, how embarrassing,’ she sobbed as Lola took the paper mat from under her drink and handed it to her. Camilla dabbed her eyes with it ineffectually. ‘I am really looking forward to it. It’s the booze talking, I’m just having a few last-minute nerves.’
Lola gave her an understanding smile. ‘I know the feeling, I was going to get married once,’ she told her.
Camilla was shocked. ‘Really?’
Lola nodded and took another deep glug of her drink. ‘Lovely guy, proposed with a three-carat ring at the Rio carnival five years ago.’
‘What happened?’ asked Camilla.
‘Oh, I just knew it was wrong. Felt wrong, looked wrong,’ Lola explained. ‘Of course, I just assumed I was with the wrong guy, not the wrong sex.’ She laughed ruefully. ‘Caused an awful rumpus at the time, but I got there. We’re even friends again, now.’
‘I don’t think I’m into women,’ said Camilla hurriedly.
Lola glanced across at her. ‘I know, you don’t have to explain.’ She clinked her glass against Camilla’s. ‘Just remember to follow your heart, babe.’ She shot Camilla a flirty look. ‘Still, it’s a shame.’
Lola’s face swam in and out of Camilla’s line of vision. Her inhibitions had gone out of the window hours ago. I wonder what it would be like to kiss a girl? she asked herself hazily. Her sister’s words came back to haunt her: ‘You don’t have enough fun!’ Suddenly, feeling like it was happening to someone else, Camilla launched forward and locked her lips on to Lola’s. Lola tasted of bubblegum and strawberry lip-gloss. After a moment her soft tongue found its way into Camilla’s mouth, and they started necking like a pair of randy teenagers.
Everyone whooped and cheered around the table until a giggling Calypso eventually prised them apart. ‘Bills! You don’t know what you’re doing. Leave my sister alone, you,’ she said to Lola. ‘She’s getting married!’
‘She kissed me!’ protested Lola.
‘Yes, I did!’ slurred Camilla proudly. ‘And very nice it was too. Hic!’ She stood up unsteadily. ‘Right. Who’s for a boogie?’
When the club shut at three, it took two bouncers, Calypso and one of the bar staff to drag Camilla off the dance floor. She’d lost a shoe along the way and her mascara was running down her face, but she was in a buoyant mood. ‘I just wanna dance with somebody,’ she sang drunkenly as Calypso and Sam dragged her up the stairs. The others had left an hour earlier, but only after Camilla had typed her number into Lola’s phone and ordered her to call her.
By the time they got back to Chelsea and met up with Tizzy, Camilla had passed out face-down in Sam’s lap. She didn’t wake up all the way back to the Cotswolds, even when Sam gave her a fireman’s lift up to bed. She did have a funny dream about a beaver that night, though.
When the phone rang at No. 5 The Green at nine in the morning, it entered Camilla’s consciousness like a sledgehammer. She peeled open one eye and winced at the sunlight filtering into her bedroom. What had happened last night? She couldn’t remember much past the fifth tequila slammer.
The phone continued ringing. ‘All right, I’m coming,’ she groaned, forcing herself to sit up. Her head was pounding and a wave of nausea washed over her. She leaned across to pick up the receiver. ‘Hello?’ she croaked.
‘Camilla? Darling, is that you?’ Her grandmother’s voice sounded distant and shaky. Camilla tried to focus. In the back of her consciousness, warning bells were chiming. ‘Granny Clem, is something wrong?’
A sob sounded down the phone. Camilla was wide awake now; a cold, sick pit of fear spreading through her stomach. ‘Is it Caro, or Milo?’ she whispered. ‘Or Mummy and Daddy?’
Another choked sob as Clementine tried to compose herself. ‘Oh, Camilla, something dreadful has happened,’ she finally said. ‘The Reverend Goody has been murdered!’
Chapter 35
DI RANCE LOOKED at the body and quickly turned away. Throughout his time in the force he had learned not to be shocked when confronted with death, but that didn’t mean he’d ever get used to it.
The Revd Goody was lying on his back in the middle of his large double bed. His flabby white body was completely naked, arms splayed out to the sides and legs crumpled and curled up underneath him. It looked like there had been some kind of struggle: the flowery covers and bedspread were scrunched up in disarray. His neck was disturbingly red and mottled, and tied around it – so tightly it was cutting into the soft folds of his flesh – was a white silk scarf. Above this, the Reverend’s bespectacled face was purple; unseeing eyes staring at the ceiling, and a bloated tongue lolling obscenely out of his mouth. It was horrible, but the most shocking thing of all was his expression – lips curled back and teeth bared as if in a silent scream. Rance let out an involuntary shudder. Poor sod – what a way to go.
‘Looks like he was strangled, Guv!’ PC Penny materialized beside him in the bedroom doorway. ‘I reckon the perpetrator broke in while he was sleeping, crept upstairs and POW!’ Penny slammed his fist into the other open palm. ‘Throttled the Reverend good and proper!’
Rance looked disdainfully at the young officer. He was positively beside himself with excitement, bulbous eyes almost popping out of his head. ‘Penny,’ he said grimly. ‘May I remind you that a very serious offence has been committed here, so can you stop going round looking like a dog with two tails? The last thing these villagers need to see is you slavering in a frenzy over the death of their beloved vicar.’
Penny looked suitably chastened. ‘Sorry, sir,’ he said meekly. His eyes lit up again. ‘But he has been bumped off, hasn’t he?’ he asked eagerly. ‘My mates from training college are going to be pig sick when they hear about this! Most they’ve had so far are shoplifters and flashers!’
‘Until we’ve done the post-mortem, I don’t want to say one way or another,’ replied Rance. ‘Now get downstairs and set a cordon up outside the front door. There’s a crowd forming outside and we don’t want anyone coming in who’s not with us or the crime scene lot.’
As Penny scampered off down the stairs Rance turned and looked back at the body. Even though he had just put his constable in his place, Rance had to agree with Penny. He was 99 per cent certain he was looking at a murder victim.
‘Time of death was between two and three o’clock this morning,’ the duty doctor informed Rance when he returned to the kitchen. ‘The body is showing signs of early rigor mortis.’ The doctor was a small, efficient man with an immaculate pencil moustache. Rance looked around the kitchen. The SOCO officers were painstakingly moving down the corridor now, dusting for fingerprints and any other trace evidence. Another PC from the station was blithely going through a biscuit tin next to the kettle, his mouth full of ginger snaps. Rance frowned at him, and lowered his voice. ‘In your opinion, Doc, what do you make of it?’
The doctor snapped off his rubber gloves and started packing away his medicine bag. ‘Not for me to say, Inspector, but it does look rather suspicious.’
The next morning Rance paid a visit to the morgue at Bedlington. The pathologist, Bernard Trump, was one year away from retirement, but looked like he had been in a nursing home for decades already. A raging alcoholic, it was a long-running joke amongst the local police that if a corpse wasn’t dead before it entered his morgue, the fumes from the pathologist’s breath would finish it off for good. Bernard was ponderous and portly, with a permanently red nose and watery, rheumy eyes. Eyes that were now surveying Rance over the stainless steel trolley the Reverend’s body lay on. Loud retching could be heard coming from the toilet next door. Penny’s orgasmic excitement at having a possible murder on his hands had been tempered slightly by having to witness his first autopsy.
‘Death was caused by compression to the t
rachea, leading to loss of consciousness due to suffocation,’ Trump intoned, leaning over to show Rance. ‘The carotid arteries in the neck would also have been severely compressed, stopping the supply of blood to the brain and making it bell, I mean, er, swell,’ Trump slurred. He stared off into space and burped gently. Rance surveyed him in disgust.
‘So basically, you’re telling me he was strangled?’
‘Mmm,’ replied Trump distractedly. Rance noticed his hands shaking. Probably got the DTs, the silly old sod. The pathologist peered at Rance. ‘I would say the Reverend here would have been unconscious in seconds, but it could have taken up to twenty minutes for him to die. You can tell by the livid bruise marks on both sides of his neck.’
Trump pulled the sheet over the Revd Goody’s ghostly white face. ‘Was there anything else? Only I’ve got a lunch meeting.’
With a bloke called Jack Daniels, thought Rance disparagingly.
Penny came back into the room, looking decidedly corpse-like himself. ‘All right, Penny?’ his boss asked wickedly. ‘Fancy a bit of lunch, maybe a nice rare steak? Just imagine, all that blood oozing out when you cut into it. Mmm.’ He watched as Penny clapped a hand over his mouth and fled the room again. Moments later, violent retching could be heard as Penny dry-heaved the last of his bile into the toilet bowl.
Rance looked back at the pathologist to share the joke, but Trump was surreptitiously taking a swig out of a small silver hip flask. Jesus, he couldn’t even wait for other people to leave the room! No wonder afternoon autopsies were unheard of in here.
Minutes later, Rance was getting his come-uppance for playing a joke on Penny. The PC stank of sick and sweat, and even with all the windows open the patrol car reeked all the way back to the station. Penny was too ill to drive, so Rance had to take over while he sat slumped against the passenger door, head hanging out the window. Rance hoped none of their superiors would see them as they pulled into the car park. It was hardly a good advert for the police force.
