She’d gestured then to the PCs who were trying, unsuccessfully in Harbinder’s view, to blend in with the day-trippers. They had taken Julie away for questioning. Harbinder had said that she would follow them after she’d taken Arthur to Julie’s friends but, actually, she had walked a little way along the promenade and sat on a bench looking at the sea. It was there that Benedict and Natalka had found her.
She’d rung Donna from Holland Road police station.
Now Donna and Neil are trying to process this latest development.
‘Julie Monroe killed Peggy because she knew that she’d copied the plot of her book from some old murder mystery?’ That’s Neil, putting it in subtitles for the hard of hearing.
‘Yes,’ says Harbinder. ‘I thought it might be impossible to prove. There wasn’t a post-mortem and so many people have trampled through that flat. But Julie confessed. She’d confessed by the time I got to Hove police station. She confessed to Lance’s murder too. Both by insulin injection. The forensic psychologist who interviewed her said that she thought Julie might have killed her own mother too. That’s what gave her the idea. Apparently that’s how the victim is killed in Julie’s first book, with an insulin injection. No wonder she didn’t have any trouble with that murder.’
‘Did you have any idea?’ says Neil. ‘I mean, you must have known this Julie quite well. You were all held in the safe house together, weren’t you?’
He’s looking at her intently, quite unlike his usual darting squirrel gaze.
‘I had my suspicions,’ says Harbinder.
‘Then you should have shared them with us,’ says Donna, but quite mildly.
‘They were just suspicions,’ says Harbinder. ‘I didn’t guess until I finished Thank Heaven Fasting last night.’
‘All this reading,’ says Neil. ‘You’ll be joining a book club soon, Harbinder.’
‘If I do,’ says Harbinder, ‘you have my permission to shoot me.’
It’s early evening by the time she gets home. Her father is in the shop so Harbinder helps her mother prepare supper, watched droolingly by Starsky. Harbinder is glad that she didn’t tell her mum about the date with Julie. Bibi is so keen to show that she isn’t prejudiced that she will probably shower any prospective girlfriend with rose petals and Indian sweetmeats. It’ll be even worse than the times when her brothers brought their girlfriends home.
After supper, Harbinder watches Saturday evening television with her parents, listening to their ritual comments on Britain’s Got Talent.
‘Look at that, Deepak. I couldn’t do that.’
‘Why would you want to, Bibi?’
As early as she can, Harbinder excuses herself and goes upstairs. After her shower, she gets into bed, picks up her phone and puts it down again. She’s trying to wean herself off Panda Pop. She remembers Neil’s comment about the reading. Maybe that’s what she needs to do now. Read and take her mind off Julie’s face when she saw Harbinder this afternoon. If this hadn’t happened, could she have had a relationship with her? Maybe, thinks Harbinder, and, after their first row, Julie would have approached her with a loaded syringe. She’s safer staying single.
She looks around her room for possible reading matter but there are only her old school and university books, plus a full set of James Herberts. But she isn’t in the mood for horror tonight. On her desk is the jiffy bag from Pippa Sinclair-Lewis, containing Dex Challoner’s first book, A Town Called Murder. She gets the book out now and flips through the pages. Death, guns, sex, murder. Looks like the perfect comforting read. As she opens the book at Chapter One, a postcard falls out. Pippa Sinclair-Lewis has written, Enjoy! P. Harbinder turns the card over and reads the words: We are coming for you.
Harbinder doesn’t think that Pippa will answer an ‘unknown number’ call on a Saturday evening but she does.
‘Sorry to ring you so late.’
‘Don’t worry. I’m a night owl. I was just reading.’
‘Me too. I was reading A Town Called Murder.’
‘Oh good. Do you like it?’
‘I haven’t really started it yet. I was just looking through it when a postcard fell out. It says “We are coming for you”.’
To her surprise, Pippa laughs. ‘Oh, that was one of Dakota’s ideas. You remember I told you about Dakota, the new young publicist? Well, she had the cards made up to go with proof copies of a debut novel called The Debt Collectors. Crazy, really, because it doesn’t even have the book’s title on it. And she sent the cards before she sent the books. I suppose it’s meant to create a “buzz”.’ Harbinder can imagine Pippa putting fastidious quotation marks around the word.
‘Who would you send these cards to?’
‘Oh, anyone who might talk about the book. Or give a quote that we could use on the cover. Reviewers, bloggers, authors.’
‘People like Dex Challoner, Lance Foster and J. D. Monroe?’
‘Yes. They’d be the sort of people. Influencers, you know.’
‘I know,’ says Harbinder. ‘Well, I won’t keep you any longer. Good night.’
‘Good night,’ says Pippa. ‘Happy reading.’
But Harbinder has no intention of doing anything as dangerous as reading. She switches off the light and goes straight to sleep.
Chapter 38
Edwin: time and the hour
Edwin is back to his old game of trying to fill in time. As he goes about his daily routine, some lines from Macbeth keep coming back to him.
Come what come may,
Time and the hour runs through the roughest day.
Edwin remembers going to see an experimental production at the Edinburgh Festival with Nicky. The witches had been played by break-dancers dressed as chickens. He can’t quite recall where these lines come in the play but, clearly, Macbeth had been having a tough day. So many people to murder, so little time. Edwin has too much time, it’s soft-sift in the hourglass, trickling out a grain at a time. But, come what may, it will run out in the end. Sundays are OK because he’s taken to going to mass. He likes Father Brendan and he likes the fact that some of the parish stalwarts now know his name and ask his advice on the pronunciation of difficult names in the readings. And the best thing is that Sunday morning mass, and the walk there and back, takes up two hours, three if he stays for coffee afterwards.
The trouble is that he wakes up too early, at about five a.m. That leaves far too many weekday hours to kill. Hours to kill. Since Aberdeen he’s been noticing the murderous nature of the English language. Killing time. Getting slaughtered. A stab in the dark. Taking a pot shot. Patricia had shot Dex, Julie had stabbed Peggy with a needle. Edwin still can’t believe that these women, both of whom he had liked, were capable of such things. But doesn’t Macbeth warn you to ignore women at your peril?
Edwin doesn’t let himself get up until six. Then he makes himself a cup of tea and a piece of toast, eating almost as maddeningly slowly as Benedict. Then it’s time for the bathroom. If he tries really hard, Edwin can make his morning shower last two hours. After all, as the years go on, getting wet at all is a risky business. He always makes sure that the non-slip mat is in place and he uses the handrails thoughtfully provided by the people who converted Preview Court into a posh halfway house on the road to death.
Then he gets dressed. Edwin always takes care with this, trousers pressed, shoes polished, jumpers arranged by colour. Old age is no excuse for looking scruffy. Edwin has always prided himself on his dress sense. He would never have gone about like Benedict in shapeless jumpers and ill-fitting jeans. Mind you, Benedict’s appearance has improved tremendously since he’s started seeing Natalka. Benedict now wears well-made clothes in natural fabrics, greens and blues to bring out the colour of his eyes. He even has new glasses and a haircut that doesn’t look as if he did it himself, with nail scissors and no mirror. No doubt about it, Benedict is a new man. About time too, Edwin t
hinks with satisfaction. He has managed to convince himself that he personally engineered the romance between Benedict and Natalka.
By the time that Edwin is fully dressed, with cravat or tie neatly tied, it’s time to go to Benedict’s coffee shack. This is Edwin’s favourite time of the day. It’s pleasant to think that, just a short walk away, there’s a place where he will always get a warm welcome, a good coffee, and a chat about mutual friends. The danger is making it last too long. Benedict has other customers, after all. Edwin makes it a rule never to stay for more than half an hour. Besides, it’s too cold to sit at the picnic table for longer. The fine weather has continued but it’s October now and the morning air is a little chilly.
This morning, though, just as Edwin shrugs on his coat, there’s a knock at the door. This in itself is rather worrying. People usually have to press the entryphone so that residents can let them in. A knock means that a stranger is actually inside the building. Briefly Edwin imagines himself facing a gunman, something that has happened twice to Benedict and Natalka. He is, not jealous exactly, more curious, about how he would respond in the same situation. Well, he might be about to find out.
Edwin flings open the door with unnecessary bravado and finds Sally Smith waiting outside.
‘Hallo, Edwin,’ says Sally. She’s wearing a red jacket and a beret that suddenly reminds Edwin poignantly of Peggy.
‘Were you on your way out?’ says Sally, indicating Edwin’s coat and hat.
‘Just over the road to Benedict’s café,’ says Edwin. He can’t bring himself to call it a shack, not out loud anyway.
‘That’s nice,’ says Sally. ‘Is it true that he and Natalka are a couple now? Alison mentioned it.’
‘Yes,’ says Edwin, thinking that this is an odd way of putting it. The tune ‘We’re a couple of swells’ appears, unbidden, in his head. He will have to stop himself humming it.
‘How lovely,’ says Sally. ‘I’m glad Natalka has found a nice chap. She was so kind to Peggy.’
‘Benedict’s a thoroughly nice chap,’ says Edwin.
‘You know that the police say that Peggy was murdered?’ says Sally. ‘Isn’t it terrible?’
‘Really terrible,’ says Edwin.
‘Nigel is very upset,’ says Sally. ‘He’s burying himself in his writing.’
From what Edwin’s heard, Nigel’s writing would be better off dead and buried. He finds it rather sinister that Nigel Smith has suddenly reinvented himself as an author.
‘Anyway,’ says Sally. ‘I came to tell you that we’ve sold Peggy’s flat.’
‘Yes,’ says Edwin. ‘Alison told me.’ He had known that it would happen, of course, but now that it has, he feels unexpectedly sad.
‘The new owner, Mrs Shepherd, will move in in a few weeks,’ says Sally. ‘And I thought, why don’t you, Natalka and Benedict have a final tea party there first? Just as way of saying goodbye to Peggy. I think Natalka still has a set of keys. She can post them back to the estate agent afterwards.’
‘I wonder how she knew I’d kept a set of keys,’ says Natalka. She’s in her running clothes and sitting on the picnic table, as if she’s too athletic to use anything as prosaic as a seat.
‘Maybe Alison told her,’ says Edwin. ‘She seems to know everything. Anyway, I thought a tea party was a rather nice idea.’
‘I could bring some cakes,’ says Benedict, coming over with a plate of broken brownies.
‘Shall we ask Harbinder?’ says Natalka.
‘How is she?’ says Edwin. ‘After Julie, I mean.’
‘OK, I think,’ says Natalka. ‘She’s tough.’
‘She was shocked though,’ says Benedict. ‘I mean, we all were.’
‘Yes,’ says Edwin. ‘I really liked Julie.’
‘I never trusted her,’ says Natalka, though this is the first time she has said this. ‘When I shared a room with her, she talked in her sleep.’
Lady Macbeth again, thinks Edwin.
‘I think we should invite Harbinder,’ says Benedict. ‘Peggy would like us to celebrate the end of the case. I remember she always said she hated crime novels that didn’t tie up all the loose ends.’
‘I suppose we’re the loose ends in this story,’ says Edwin.
‘No,’ says Natalka. ‘We’re the main characters.’
Edwin thinks of this as he walks back to Preview Court. He wonders if he’s been the main character in his own life. If his story was made into a film probably Nicky and his mother would have the biggest parts, or at least the roles most likely to win an Oscar. Well, the Peggy mystery would make an interesting last chapter anyway. Penultimate chapter, he tells himself firmly.
What should he do when he gets in? It’s only eleven o’clock, far too early for lunch. If the paper has been delivered, he’ll do the crossword. It’s a kind of tribute to Peggy, trying to get his head round the cryptic clues. He thinks of anagrams, the right letters but in the wrong order. There are a few that crop up fairly often in crosswords. Edwin has been making a list.
Debit card – bad credit
Orchestra – carthorse
Dormitory – dirty room
Schoolmaster – the classroom
Astronomer – moon starer.
He lets himself into the flats and picks up the Guardian from the pile of papers on the hall table. EDWARD FITZHERBERT, it says in capital letters on the front. The newsagent never gets his name right. Typical really.
He’s just about to start up the stairs when someone calls his name. His actual name. Edwin turns. Alison is standing in the doorway of her office.
‘Hallo, Edwin,’ she says. ‘How are you?’
‘Not bad,’ says Edwin. ‘Can’t complain.’ Well he can, but who would listen?
‘I’ve been thinking about our new resident,’ says Alison. ‘The lady who’s moving into Peggy’s flat. Her name is Belinda Shepherd. She’s coming down from London, recently widowed. She used to work for Radio 4. I thought it might be nice if you called in on her. She’ll probably be lonely at first. You should have things in common, both working for the BBC.’
‘I could bring her some of Benedict’s brownies,’ says Edwin.
‘That would be lovely.’
Time and the hour, thinks Edwin, as he climbs the non-slip stairs to his flat. Time and the hour. But now the words have a jaunty, rhythmic feel.
Chapter 39
Natalka: back to usually
Natalka is trying to run every morning. The weather is still fine and it’s a joy to pound along the path above the beach, the sea doing its blue sparkly thing in the background. Natalka thinks of Cove Bay, of the fishing boats coming in to shore, of Benedict skimming stones, of closing her eyes in terror, then opening them to see Dmytro standing in front of her, like a vision. She had thought that she was alone in the world, staring at her bank account every night, pursued by nameless enemies, but now she has her brother, her almost-twin. They text and Skype every day. Their mother, almost delirious with happiness, is planning to come to England to see them.
And Natalka has a boyfriend. That’s what she called Benedict in her head, thinking of Dasha and Anastasia and their relentless acquisition, and disposal, of teenage boyfriends. She has a crazy desire to ring them and tell them about Benedict.
But that’s another reason for running. She’s worried that being with Benedict has made her soft. She used to do yoga every morning but now it’s too easy to lie in bed watching Benny make her morning tea. He even goes out to buy her croissants, although he has fresh pastries in the shack. They’re still spending most of their time in Benedict’s bedsit but Natalka thinks that they should find a place of their own. Together they have enough money, even with her new business expenses.
Natalka is running Care4You. It seemed wrong to let the clients suffer just because the boss turned out to be a murderer. Natalka finds that she q
uite enjoys the administration side. Maria is a great help and Natalka has also employed several more carers, making sure that each one has a police check first. Maybe she should buy Patricia out, or maybe she should become a sleeping partner and let Maria take over. Or should she do something else entirely? Benedict keeps saying that they should visit Ukraine. Natalka says there’s no point because her mother is coming to England. Natalka has met Benedict’s parents a couple of times and it was awkward only because they were so obviously relieved to see Benedict with a woman. ‘We never thought he’d catch someone like you,’ said Benny’s oafish brother, Hugo. It was obviously meant to be a compliment even if it did make Natalka sound like a virus. ‘Benny has hidden depths,’ Natalka told Hugo, who did not look delighted to hear it.
She has reached the shack. Benedict has a queue of customers, probably because he insists on making coffee in what he calls a mindful way, which actually means taking twice as long as a normal person. But Natalka finds herself smiling as she approaches. There’s a lot to be said for sleeping with someone who tries to do everything in the best way possible. Tantric sex has nothing on it.
‘Look, Benedict, it’s your lovely girlfriend,’ says one of the regulars. There’s no point hiding anything from old people, that’s something Natalka has learnt in her job. Look at Edwin, he had worked out that she and Benedict were a couple before they knew it themselves.
‘Don’t know what she sees in you,’ says a spritely octogenarian in a baseball cap.
‘Nor do I,’ says Benedict, giving Natalka one of his beautiful smiles. He has made her a cappuccino too, just the way she likes it, with an added espresso on top. He always draws a heart in the foam too. He says that he’s been doing that for a long time, since they first met, in fact. But, if so, Natalka has only started noticing now.
‘I can’t stay long,’ says Natalka, drinking her coffee while doing leg stretches. ‘I’ve got a lot of paperwork to get through.’ She has rented an office; she’s not working from Patricia’s creepy spare bedroom.
The Postscript Murders Page 29
