‘Coffee?’ he says now.
‘Cappuccino please. With an extra shot.’
‘I remember.’
Benedict takes even more care than usual with Natalka’s coffee and, on sudden impulse, decorates it with a heart.
Natalka drinks the coffee without noticing the decoration. ‘Did you hear about Peggy?’ she says.
‘Yes. Edwin told me this morning. He’s very upset.’
‘Poor Edwin. I think she was his only real friend. We’ll have to look after him.’
There are no other customers so Benedict joins Natalka at the picnic table. ‘We will look after Edwin,’ he says. ‘I’ll invite him to go to church with me.’
‘Steady on,’ says Natalka. ‘Don’t go mad.’ Steady on. Her English is really very good, even when she’s using it to mock him.
‘You know,’ says Natalka, ‘I was the one who found Peggy.’
‘I didn’t know. That must have been awful for you.’
‘Yes. It was a shock.’ There’s a pause and then she says, ‘At first I thought it was sad but just one of those things, you know? Peggy had angina, she used to take pills for it. They were by her chair when she died. But then I started to think that things weren’t right.’
‘Weren’t right?’
‘No. I’d seen Peggy only that morning and she’d seemed in good health. She used to swim and go for walks. She never used the lift at the flats.’
‘She was ninety though.’
‘Do you think ninety-year-olds can’t be murdered?’
‘Murdered?’ The word comes out far too loud. From the roof of the shack, the seagull is laughing at him.
‘I don’t know,’ says Natalka. ‘But, when I was clearing away her books, I found this.’ She puts a business card in front of him.
‘“Mrs M. Smith,”’ he reads, ‘“murder consultant.” Murder consultant? What does that mean?’
‘I went to the police yesterday evening,’ says Natalka, as if this is an everyday occurrence. ‘I spoke to a very nice woman detective sergeant. She agreed that it was suspicious.’
‘She did?’
‘Well, she didn’t say as much but I could tell that she agreed with me. I said that she should come to Peggy’s funeral, see what she can find out. The son must be the first suspect, after all.’
‘The son? Nigel? The kulak?’
‘That’s the one. He’s an oaf. I know the sort. He wanted all of Peggy’s books put away. Now I know why.’
‘Why?’ asks Benedict. Is this a dream? he asks himself. But he never has dreams this interesting.
‘Peggy had a lot of crime books.’
‘I know.’ This was something he and Peggy had in common. They spent many happy hours at the picnic table discussing Agatha Christie, Ruth Rendell and Peggy’s favourite, an out-of-print golden-age writer called Sheila Atkins.
‘I don’t mean just reading them.’ Natalka’s voice is dismissive. ‘Peggy was actually mentioned in the books. In the, what are they called? Acknowledgements. For Peggy, with thanks. One even says “thanks for the murders”.’
‘Thanks for the murders?’
‘Yes. And now she’s been murdered.’
Benedict once went on a roller coaster at Thorpe Park. As soon as he was strapped in his seat, he realised that the ride was a very bad idea. But it was too late, the car had plunged downwards, unstoppable and terrifying. He has the same feeling now.
‘We don’t know that . . .’ he begins.
‘There is something suspicious,’ says Natalka, standing up. ‘And we need to investigate. We were her friends. Who else is there?’
‘The police?’
‘I’ve told the police,’ says Natalka patiently. ‘But now it’s up to us. We must watch everyone at the funeral.’
‘Why?’
‘Because the murderer always attends the funeral. Honestly, Benny, don’t you know anything?’
Chapter 4
Edwin: Preview Court
Edwin walks slowly back to Seaview Court. In his head, he sometimes calls it Preview Court, which would be worrying if he ever said it aloud. He doesn’t want people to think that he can’t remember the name of his own place of residence. The trouble is, so much of his life now goes on in his head that he’s sometimes not sure what’s real and what isn’t. It’s like a tree falling in the forest. Is a word spoken if no one hears it? And why Preview, for heaven’s sake? Is it a buried cultural reference to the old Morecambe and Wise sketch with the conductor André Previn, hilariously misnamed by Eric Morecambe? Or is it an acknowledgement of the inescapable truth that this sheltered apartment is, in fact, a preview of death?
Andrew Preview. The right notes in the wrong order. Edwin used to work at the BBC, in the days of bow ties and long lunches. He started as a researcher on a quiz show whose rules he never quite mastered, then he had a spell as a presenter on Radio 3, indulging his love of classical music. Eventually he ended up producing religious programmes and a tasteful documentary or two. Halcyon days. Edwin had many friends, even a discreet love affair or two. Homosexuality was still illegal when Edwin was a young man but the BBC had seemed like a safe haven, or almost-safe; there had been a few nasty incidents in Shepherd’s Bush late at night but Edwin had lived a charmed life. He thinks of his lovers now: Jeremy, Nicky and François. Nicky and François both died of AIDS in the eighties and Jeremy, improbably, was now a married man, a father and grandfather. They’d lost touch years ago. Sometimes Edwin feels like the last man standing. With Peggy gone, he’s the only sentient being left in Preview Court.
He climbs the stairs to his second-floor flat. He and Peggy had made it a point of honour never to use the lift. Of course, Peggy had been ninety, a good ten years older than Edwin, and, once you’re over eighty, every year matters. It’s funny, though. Edwin had always expected that he would die first. Women live longer, everyone knows that, and Peggy was such a tough old soul. A heart attack, that’s what Natalka said, but Peggy had never exhibited any symptoms of a bad heart, no unhealthy pallor, no shortness of breath. Hence the stairs, hence the seafront walk every day. She’d even been a swimmer until very recently. It had been Surfers Against Sewage that had put her off, not fear of rough seas.
Edwin turns the corridor leading to his flat, number twenty-three, and to Peggy’s, number twenty-one, which is diagonally opposite. His is slightly bigger but she had the sea view. He’s surprised to see Peggy’s door open and hear voices inside. Should he go in and see what’s happening? But he doesn’t want to assume the age-old role of the nosy neighbour. Nosy old neighbour, even worse. As he dithers, a man and a woman come out of the apartment. Edwin recognises the man as Peggy’s son Nigel. The woman must be his wife.
Nigel recognises Edwin but obviously can’t come up with the name. He’s a large man, red faced and choleric-looking. It’s hard to believe that he’s related to Peggy, so neat and trim in her reefer coat and colourful berets.
‘It’s Edwin, isn’t it?’ says the woman. ‘Peggy’s friend.’ She’s better than Nigel deserves, slim and elegant in a white shirt, jeans and loafers.
Edwin hears himself declaring, stiffly, that he was, indeed, Peggy’s friend.
‘I’m Sally,’ says the woman, ‘Peggy’s daughter-in-law. I know how fond she was of you.’
Suddenly, to his horror, Edwin feels tears starting in his eyes. He gets out his handkerchief, muttering about hay fever.
‘The funeral’s next Wednesday,’ says Sally. ‘At the crematorium. I hope you can come.’
‘I’ll try to make it,’ says Edwin, although his Wonders of Italy calendar is entirely blank for next week, and all the weeks after it.
‘Been tidying up the flat,’ says Nigel, as he jiggles his keys about. ‘I asked the carer, that Russian girl, to box everything up but she’s only done half of it.’
‘Natalka?
’ says Edwin. ‘She’s Ukrainian, I believe.’ It’s not much of a retort but it’s the best he can do.
‘We want to put it on the market immediately,’ says Nigel, ignoring this. ‘There’s always a market for sheltered accommodation.’
‘And such a lovely view,’ says Sally.
‘Yes. Peggy loved looking at the sea,’ says Edwin.
‘I know she did,’ Sally makes a gesture of patting his arm without actually touching him. ‘I’ve left some things aside for you. I’m sure you’d like a keepsake of some sort.’
‘That’s very kind.’
‘I’m getting rid of all the books,’ says Nigel. ‘Why did she read all those crime novels? I mean, she was a clever woman.’
‘Don’t clever people read crime novels?’ asks Edwin, making a list of murder mysteries in his head, starting with Macbeth and including Dickens, Dostoevsky, Charlotte Brontë and Wilkie Collins. He’s a particular fan of The Moonstone by Wilkie Collins.
Nigel doesn’t answer. ‘See you next week,’ he says. ‘We’ll have the reception here afterwards.’
‘Goodbye, Edwin,’ says Sally, with another of those air pats.
Edwin watches them go, thinking: idiot, boor, kulak. Then wondering: why is Nigel so keen to get rid of the books?
Chapter 5
Harbinder: woodland animals
‘Murder consultant?’ says Neil. ‘What does that even mean?’
Harbinder counts to five. Her new tactic with Neil is to imagine him as a woodland creature, sly, slightly stupid but ultimately lovable.
‘I don’t know,’ she says, ‘but I’d like to find out.’
‘Why?’ Nibble, nibble, washes whiskers.
‘A woman is dead and it turns out she’s a murder consultant. Aren’t you even the slightest bit curious?’
‘The police don’t pay us to be curious.’ Examines nut, twitches tail.
‘They don’t pay us much at all.’
Harbinder and Neil are on surveillance, which means that they’re sitting outside a gasworks getting on each other’s nerves. It’s not really CID work but Shoreham power station is officially classed as a terrorist target so it requires plain-clothes officers. Today they are in the car park, facing a chain-link fence and brick outbuildings. From the other side there’s actually a spectacular view across the harbour but neither of them is in the mood for the joys of nature. Harbinder is dying for some chips but Neil is phobic about people eating in his car.
‘Anyway, I thought I’d go along to Peggy Smith’s funeral,’ says Harbinder, scrolling idly through her phone. ‘See what I can find out.’
‘Do you really think there’s something suspicious about her death?’
‘It’s unlikely, I know. Her doctor didn’t think so. He put heart attack as the cause of death.’
‘Nothing to justify a post-mortem then?’
‘No. And apparently the son was very keen to get her buried – or rather cremated – as soon as possible. But the carer was worried enough to come to the police.’
‘Does this carer think the old lady was murdered?’
‘She thinks there was something odd about her death. Apparently Mrs Smith had talked about someone watching her. The carer – Natalka – had put it down to paranoia, maybe even the start of Alzheimer’s, but then she found Mrs Smith dead, sitting in her chair within easy reach of her pills.’
‘Why would anyone kill her? Was she rich?’
‘I don’t think so. Sheltered housing probably used up all her money. It would be good to check her bank accounts though. See if there’s any unusual activity. She’s got a son but it sounds like he’s pretty well-off already. No motive there.’
‘Then why are you going to the funeral?’
‘I don’t know. Just to get a feel of things. See if anyone’s acting suspiciously.’
‘Does Donna know?’
‘Yes,’ lies Harbinder, clicking onto Panda Pop.
‘I won’t tell her,’ says Neil.
Sometimes he’s not as stupid as he seems.
Harbinder isn’t sure if Mrs Smith’s funeral is uniquely grim or if Christian funerals are always like this. She’s never been to one before although she has sat through a couple of weddings. In fact, she’s only been to one funeral ever, not a bad score for someone of thirty-six. That had been the full funeral rites, the antam sanskaar, with prayers in the gurdwara afterwards. For Sikhs, death is the start of a new life and mourning is dignified and restrained – no eulogies, no wailing, no beating of chests – but there had definitely been a subdued grandeur to the occasion. Harbinder remembers flowers, chrysanthemums, and an open casket. She hadn’t gone too close. Whose funeral was it? Some ‘Auntie’ or ‘Uncle’, probably not a blood relation. Her father told her that, in India, the body would have been cremated on an open pyre but, thank God, in England they had to make do with a crematorium and the oldest family member pressing the button to close the curtains.
This is a crematorium too, lots of wood panelling and muted colours, beige and lilac, some vague non-denominational patterns on the stained-glass windows. The congregation is muted too, unlike at a Sikh gathering, and Harbinder has trouble working out which dark-suited man is Mrs Smith’s son. There’s a smartly-dressed man near the front. Could that be him? No, he looks a bit too urbane. She spots a ruddy man, slightly too large for his black suit – that’s probably him. Yes, the celebrant, a woman (vicar? minister?), is consulting him with tilted head and concerned expression. That must be Nigel’s wife with him, black dress and pearls like a cut-price Audrey Hepburn. Harbinder spots Natalka easily, her blonde hair piled on top of her head, wearing slim black trousers and a white shirt. She’s in a row of women, presumably all carers. Otherwise, there are a few people sitting alone, as if they need a pew to themselves. There’s one odd couple, though, a man in glasses and a much older man wearing a pink bow tie that seems defiant somehow. The younger man turns, scanning the room, and smiles when his eyes meet Harbinder’s. Harbinder would never smile at a stranger. Maybe she’s too suspicious. That’s what ten years of policing does for you. She doesn’t smile back.
The service is mercifully short. The coffin is brought in by the undertaker’s men, polished pine with one wreath of red roses on the top. Then the woman minister, who introduces herself ‘The Rev. Jenny Piper’, makes some vague remarks about celebrating Peggy’s life. Next there’s a reading, the son declaring that ‘the greatest of these is love’ in a voice that is almost entirely devoid of feeling, and a few short remarks from the Rev. Jenny about the deceased. Harbinder listens to these with interest. She learns that Peggy Smith was born in Cromer, on the Norfolk coast. She went to boarding school and the entire school was evacuated to Dorset during the war. After school Peggy passed the civil service exam and moved to London where she met her husband Peter Smith, who had been in the navy. ‘Domestic bliss followed,’ says Jenny, reading from the script, which Harbinder takes to mean that Peggy had to give up work. The couple had one son, Nigel, and lived in West London until Peter’s death in 1992. Peggy then moved south, first to Brighton and then to Shoreham. Peggy loved the sea and was, until recent years, a keen swimmer. She did The Times crossword every day and was a voracious reader. She ‘didn’t suffer fools gladly’ (dutiful laugh) but had a few very good friends, including, in her last years, her neighbour Edwin. At this the man in glasses pats Pink Bow Tie on the shoulder. Jenny also thanks Patricia Creeve and everyone at the agency for looking after Peggy so well. Harbinder feels that Natalka should have got a namecheck but maybe Patricia is the boss. Then there’s the Lord’s Prayer and a few remarks addressed exclusively to God and Jenny announces that the family is inviting everyone back to Peggy’s apartment in Seaview Court to ‘raise a glass to her’. Finally, Jenny presses the button, the lilac curtains close and classical music fills the room. Harbinder doesn’t know anything about opera but the programme says
the aria is called ‘E lucevan le stelle’ and it certainly seems to elevate the service to something grander and more tragic.
When the music dies away, Harbinder finds herself walking down the aisle next to Natalka.
‘Hallo,’ says Natalka. ‘It was good of you to come.’
‘I wanted to,’ says Harbinder.
‘We must speak privately,’ says Natalka. ‘I have news.’ Perhaps it’s the accent but everything Natalka says sounds as though it comes from a spy film.
Seaview Court is a short drive from the crematorium but finding a parking place is another matter. All the streets are called things like Waterside, Riverside and Ropetackle and they are all residents’ parking only. Eventually, Harbinder finds a space on a bumpy piece of road under some trees and makes her way to the flats. They are quite attractive, modern with glass balconies on the sea-facing side and surrounded by an attempt at landscaped gardens, buffeted by the sea winds which have bent all the shrubs into a crouching position. Harbinder presses the intercom but there’s no answer. Surely she’s not that late? Has everyone gone home already? She’s just about to give up when the door opens and someone comes out. It’s the well-dressed man from church. Close up, his suit looks even more expensive and he’s wearing black, highly polished shoes.
‘Going in?’ he asks.
‘Yes. I had trouble finding somewhere to park.’
‘Nightmare,’ says the man, ‘not as bad as Brighton though.’
The Postscript Murders Page 3
