by Heide Goody
I’ve heard people talk about red mist descending and I was never really sure what that was all about, but after the second punch connected, some internal mechanism took over and I grabbed her arm and bit down on it heavily. I’m ashamed to say that it felt good, because I heard her screech with pain and it stopped her hitting me. At that point, I thought there might still be a chance to calm things down and explain what had happened, but at the same time as I saw Ashbert vomiting down the back of someone’s neck in the row in front of us, a large pair of hands lifted me up from behind and dragged me to the aisle.
The strong hands that held me weren’t letting go. Amid the shouts of horror and fury and the stomping, chanting, howling of a thousand rock fans, those hands hauled me out into the empty foyer and dumped me unceremoniously in a chair.
In the distance, there was a shouted “I was only doing what she told me!” and a yelp.
I looked at the security guy.
“We’re having a medical emergency,” I said.
“What?”
“We’ve been poisoned.”
He spoke into the radio clipped to his lapel for a moment. “We will see,” he said. “You’ve been drinking?”
“That’s how we got poisoned. If I die before the police get here, I think it was Bernadette. Probably.”
He spoke into the radio again. He seemed awfully calm. Maybe people got poisoned in the theatre all the time. That would explain why it wasn’t very popular.
A few minutes later, another theatre heavy came up the stairs. He plonked my bag and our whiskey miniatures down on the table in front of me. “These yours? Your boyfriend’s scarpered.”
I was too terrified to properly answer him. Terrified that the poisoning or whatever would kick in at any moment. I reached for them. The heavy made to stop me but I found the bottle of Migdalowy.
“This one. It’s this one.”
The men gave me a blankly uncomprehending look.
“I bought some stuff from the Polish supermarket that I thought was whiskey,” I said, “but it tastes like marzipan and makes your mouth feel a bit weird when you drink it.”
The guy who’d first nabbed me took the bottle from me and then laughed. I’m a big believer that laughter is the best medicine but laughing at a dying woman is just wrong.
“Cyanide tastes like marzipan!” I said.
“So does almond essence,” he said. “Migdalowy. Almond essence. It’s for cooking.”
I stared at the little bottle. “Are you sure?”
He patted his chest. “It’s Polish. I’m from Warsaw.”
“I’ve been to Walsall too,” I said. “I took the train. Doesn’t make me an expert on Polish.”
“Warsaw in Poland,” he said, all humour gone.
Really? I thought. I could have sworn I’d got there by train. Admittedly, the bloke did have a bit of an accent.
“Ah,” I said. “A bit of a misunderstanding then. No harm done, eh?”
I was overwhelmingly relieved to discover that I wasn’t about to kick the bucket and it was disappointing to find that the security guys didn’t share my happy sense of relief. Stony-faced, they made me wait until a first aider came to take a look at my twice-punched face. While the first aider was applying a small dressing to a cut next to my eye I heard a familiar voice.
“I thought I made it clear that I didn’t want to see you again.”
I gave Sergeant Fenton and her sidekick, Constable Stokes, my best smile. My best smile made my face hurt.
“You didn’t want any more calls about me,” I corrected her. “I told these guys not to bother. It seems it was all a misunderstanding.”
The police sergeant, who I was starting to feel had something against me, gave me a steely glare. “Unfortunately, like all of your misunderstandings, it has caused a good deal of inconvenience to those around you. Why are you wrapped up in a bedsheet anyway?”
“Wardrobe crisis?” I tried a different smile on her but that really made my face hurt.
She didn’t return the smile, in fact her gaze was firmly fixed on the point where the sheet crossed over in front. I didn’t even need to look to know that a ‘Smash the system’ badge was on show. She wasn’t impressed.
“Last time we met, you were wearing a curtain,” said Sergeant Fenton.
“It was a rug, sarge,” Constable Stokes corrected her.
“A rug. Indeed. I wonder if you own any ordinary clothes at all.”
“I don’t think having an avant-garde approach to fashion is a criminal offence,” I suggested. “And there’s been no harm done here.”
Her gaze travelled up to my face again. “Really? Well that remains to be seen. We need to see whether the various parties assaulted by you this evening decide to press charges.”
“Assaulted by me? I was punched.”
“And, from what I hear, you deliberately vomited all over a number of theatregoers. Punching or vomit-attack. Can you suggest which might be considered worse?”
“Actually, there was this one time in Dundee where –”
“And I think the theatre will be in touch about the cleaning and the damage. Perhaps in your world that counts as a good night’s work, but it’s my view that you are a menace to the public, Miss Belkin.”
“Bit harsh.”
Sergeant Fenton looked to the first aider. “Is she okay to go?”
The first aider shrugged. There was only so much a woman with a box of sticking plasters could do.
“Good,” said the sergeant and hauled me to my feet.
“I could have concussion.”
“Indeed you might,” she said. “We’ll get a doctor to have a look at you down at the station.”
“But I can’t go to the police station,” I protested. “I’m… I’m underdressed.”
“Underdressed for the cop shop but not for the theatre,” mused Sergeant Fenton. “Interesting.”
“There is a bit of a cold draught in the custody suite,” said Constable Stokes.
“Then we shall swing by your apartment,” said the sergeant. “Collect some clothes, check to see if your boyfriend is there, maybe see if there are any small house fires or herbal cushions for us to deal with.”
This was not good. I tried to look meek and sorry and all of the things that appease power-hungry authority figures, but she didn’t let up with the tight-lipped glare. She loaded me into the back of a car and drove me round to Adam’s place. She walked me right to the door. They hadn’t cuffed me. Maybe she was seeing if I was going to run.
Bernadette Brampton, queen of the residents’ association, was in the lobby. Jesus! Didn’t she have anywhere else to be? The woman was an incurable busybody.
“Oh dear, what’s happened here?” she asked.
“Nothing,” I said. “We’re off to a fancy dress party. This is my Greek toga. These guys both got coppers’ uniforms. Oh, the embarrassment when they realised.”
“Excuse me, madam,” said Sergeant Fenton, leading me past. “Miss Belkin is just assisting us at this time.”
I forced a laugh. “Oh, Tracy here really likes to get into character. Method acting for a fancy dress party. Wow.”
Bernadette was having none of it. “Officer, I have some serious concerns about this young woman.”
“Do you now?” said Sergeant Fenton, unsurprised.
“So I need to know if something has occurred that could endanger my other clients.”
Clients? Did she think she was a solicitor or something?
I groaned inwardly. Actually, I think I might have groaned outwardly but they both ignored me.
Bernadette stepped forward, eager to peddle her malicious gossip.
“This person is living in a flat that is not hers. It belongs to a man called Adam who has always been a delight.”
Of course Adam had always been a delight. “Adam’s my brother,” I said rolling my eyes.
“It’s just a bit strange that we haven’t seen any sign of him since you turned up,�
�� said Bernadette, lips pursed.
“Well of course you haven’t seen him,” I said. “He’s in –” Oh. Where was he? I tried to think of the place that he’d mentioned. Had the place had a Spanishy sort of a name? “He’s abroad.”
“Well we might need you to give us some more details,” said Sergeant Fenton.
“He might be in Spain,” I said.
“You could call him then,” said Bernadette, her arms folded.
I hated her for the smug challenge, but Sergeant Fenton looked at me expectantly.
I pulled my phone from my bag and called Adam’s number. I put it onto speakerphone and we all heard the automated voice announce that he was not available.
“No, I bet he’s not available,” said Bernadette, “and I bet it’s connected with the rolled-up rug that I saw you getting rid of today, isn’t it?”
Sergeant Fenton was giving nothing away, but surely, she could see that Bernadette was a dangerous lunatic who obviously watched way too much crappy television? She must have been monitoring everything that I did and she’d built this mad theory around it all.
“That was just a rug,” I explained. “I got rid of it because it was covered in mess.”
“I bet it was,” said Bernadette with a leer.
“Let’s take a look at the rug, shall we?” said Sergeant Fenton.
“We can’t, she took it away in a car,” said Bernadette triumphantly. “Pretty suspicious, wouldn’t you say?”
“That’s only because you patrol the rubbish area like the mad old baggage that you are!” I said, out of patience now.
“Easy now,” said Constable Stokes. “Watch the language.”
“What are we supposed to do with rugs we need to throw away?” I said. “We can’t put them in the bins and if we take them to the tip you accuse us of murder! Do you know how mad you sound?”
“Miss Belkin,” said Sergeant Fenton slowly. “No one’s mentioned murder. Only you.”
Bernadette’s expression hardened further. If my mom had been on hand she might have suggested that if the wind changed she’d stick like it.
Chapter 26
I was arrested. This was a first for me. They put me in the back of the car, in handcuffs this time, and drove me to a police station.
Have you ever tried to send a text when your hands are cuffed behind your back? It’s not easy. I wanted to get hold of Cookie, as she’d be able to sort some of this out with the police. I stabbed at my phone, trying to imagine the sequence that I’d need to follow and remember where all the letters were on the keyboard, but after a few minutes the policeman saw me wriggling and took the phone off me.
At the station, I spent several lifetimes sitting in a room with nothing in it apart from a scruffy table and some chairs. I asked a couple of times if I could have a pencil and paper but they said no. Is there anything in the Geneva Convention about inflicting boredom on a person? If there isn’t, there seriously should be; it was barbaric. I had to settle for singing the songs of McFly under my breath to check that I still knew all the words to them. I can confirm that I did, and it wasn’t as exciting a pastime as I thought it might be.
Eventually, Sergeant Fenton came in with a platinum blonde colleague, who introduced herself as Detective Constable Boyce, and they settled on the other side of the table. It was such a relief to have a break in the boredom that I was almost pleased to see them. No, I was pleased to see them.
They told me they were going to record our chat, which was good, because then I wouldn’t have to repeat myself. They asked if I wanted a solicitor but I couldn’t think of any use I’d have for one. I asked for pencil and paper instead and they were happy to oblige.
“Let’s start with a simple question,” said Detective Boyce.
“I’d stick with simple questions throughout with this one,” said Sergeant Fenton.
“When did you last see your brother, Adam?” the detective asked me.
I looked to the ceiling.
“A Sunday dinner, I think. Maybe four, five months ago. At our house.”
“The flat on Silver Street?”
“No, our house. Where our parents live. Lived.”
“But you now live at the Silver Street address.”
“Moved in a few weeks ago.”
Detective Boyce frowned. “But you’ve not seen Adam in all that time?”
“No. I got the keys to let myself in. But Adam’s cool with that,” I explained. “We’ve spoken on the phone a lot.”
“The most recent time being?”
“Two nights ago. I was round at James’ house, babysitting.”
Sergeant Fenton consulted a notebook.
“That would be James Reynolds.”
“Ye-es,” I said slowly, bewildered and impressed that they’d know who James was.
“And what did you talk about with him?” said Detective Boyce.
“James?”
“Adam.”
“Oh,” I said, breaking into an irrepressible smile. “He was very angry with me. I’d bought some things on Amazon that I didn’t mean to buy but how was I to know what those buttons did?”
“You argued?”
“Yes.”
“Do you and your brother argue often?”
“Do we ever! Wow. I don’t think we’ve had a civil conversation in years.”
“Do you and your brother hate each other?”
I recoiled. “Hate is a strong word, detective. I don’t think I really hate anyone. Too much effort involved.”
“Dislike?” suggested Sergeant Fenton.
I gave it some thought. “He really doesn’t seem to like me very much. Always telling me what to do. Never happy. Just because he’s got a super-duper job and he’s on telly programmes. None you’ll have watched. It’s usually National Geographic type stuff. But it’s telly, you know.”
“So, jealous?” suggested Detective Boyce.
“I suppose he might take a look at my carefree lifestyle, my artistic integrity and wish he had some of that.”
“I meant you of him,” said the detective. “Are you jealous?”
Cor. That was a deep one. I’d best give an honest answer though. I was under oath, wasn’t I? Hang on, didn’t they need a Bible for that? I thought about the question.
“Our parents have nothing but good things to say about him. I’m the one who stayed at home to look after them but it’s always ‘Adam this…’ and ‘Adam that…’ They’re really proud of him.” I sighed, a sudden weight on my chest. “I’d like a bit of that.”
“Where are your parents at the moment?”
“I don’t know,” I said sadly.
“Where’s your brother?”
I shrugged.
“Where is Adam, Lori?”
I shrugged again.
They left me alone for a long time (taking my pencil and paper with them, which was a low blow). It was dark outside, I didn’t have my phone to tell the time, but I guessed it was way, way past midnight when they returned.
“How we doing, Lori?” said Detective Boyce.
“Tired,” I said.
“Well, you can go beddy-byes when you’ve answered a few more questions,” said Sergeant Fenton.
Detective Boyce put a laptop on the table and opened it.
“Now, Lori, do you know the difference between direct evidence and circumstantial evidence?”
“No.”
“Right. Well, there’s a few things I want to show you and maybe you can explain them because, together, they look quite suspicious.”
“Okay,” I said.
She clicked the mousepad and a picture came up.
“That’s the barbecue in the communal garden,” I said automatically. Despite my tiredness, it felt like it was a quiz and I was eager to win.
“And you were using it to destroy some clothing.”
“They were covered in paint,” I said.
“Red paint?”
“Dragon’s Blood.”
�
�Pardon?”
“One of the colours. Whispering Wound. Puce Springclean. Plum Barrage. Tudor Intrigue. Lots of colours.”
“Why didn’t you just bin the clothes?”
“That’s easy,” I said. “I already told you what Bernadette’s like with the bins. There’s a whole booklet she’s written about the dos and don’ts of living here. I had some clothes with paint all over them and I didn’t know how to get rid of them so I burned them. It seemed like the obvious thing to do.”
“Obvious?” said Sergeant Fenton.
“Yeah.”
“And this painting was at James’ house,” said Detective Boyce.
“No. In the flat,” I said.
The two policewomen exchanged a look. I didn’t like the look.
“And the rug?” said Detective Boyce. “Did that have ‘paint’ on it as well?” She did air-quotes around the word paint. I wasn’t sure she knew what air-quotes were for.
“It did have ‘paint’ on it,” I said, giving it some air-quotes of my own, joining in for the hell of it.
“And what happened to the rug?”
“Terence my driving instructor helped me take it to the tip.”
“Which tip?”
“Ah.”
“You don’t know?”
“No, I need to think,” I said. I closed my eyes and visualised the journey and Terence’s accompanying monologue. “We went down to Summer Row and round via the roadworks which are totally unnecessary. They just do it to use up their annual budgets so they don’t have them cut the next year. It’s all just cones. No one does a blind bit of work. And then we went down the ring road and through that bit where everyone’s got a BMW or Mercedes and the housewives are only using them to pop to the shop but can they park them straight? Can they heck as like.”
