An Untidy Death

by Simon Brett

  Ben was lying on the bed, his head on the blood-spattered pillow.

  ‘What happened in here, Ma?’ he asked languidly. ‘Did someone commit suicide?’

  FIFTEEN

  I’d said I’d try to get over to Mary Griffin’s. And I’d said I’d sort out the return of Dodge’s van. The presence in my house of a son with a driving licence offered a way of killing two birds with one stone.

  Also, it ensured that, at least for the drive over to Ferring, Ben would not be on his own. I knew what he’d said about his bloodied bedclothes was a joke, but my son joking about suicide was never good news. Ben was in a bad way. Apart from any other signs, the fact that he’d turned up in Chichester during university term-time told me that.

  So, I was kid-gloved with him on the way to Mary Griffin’s. I told him briefly about her situation, just that she’d been a victim of domestic violence. And asked if he’d mind driving the Morris Tipper back to Dodge’s. I told him Dodge was a bit debilitated at the moment, but I didn’t tell him why.

  Ben was delighted. I knew he would be. It had been the same with Oliver. When he was low, the prospect of a physical task, something that demanded no intellectual input, had always cheered him. At least, for a while.

  ‘Riq and Raq animation project going all right?’ I asked, sounding as casual as I could, as we drove out of Chichester on to the A27.

  ‘Hit a bit of a brick wall there, Ma,’ he replied. But his tone wasn’t downcast. It was dangerously bouncy. ‘I think maybe I need a little space from Riq and Raq.’

  His use of the word ‘space’ offered me an obvious cue to ask about his relationship with Tracey. Too obvious. As if Ben had planted it there. Something he was quite capable of doing. So, I resisted asking him about Tracey. Let that conversation come in its own time.

  ‘Dodge is in a bad way,’ I said.

  ‘I could see that from the state of my bed.’

  ‘Yes. So, if there’s anything he needs help with when you’re there … you know, just moving stuff …’

  ‘Of course I will, Ma.’

  ‘And I’ll come over and pick you up when I’m through with Mary.’

  ‘Sure.’

  Till we passed Arundel, there was silence in the Yeti. Not only silence, actually. There was also a large elephant. The elephant of the reason why Ben had come home so suddenly. And that elephant in the Yeti might well have been related to another elephant, also looming large – the situation regarding Tracey. Which in turn produced a third elephant, bigger than the other two – the state of my son’s mental health.

  Finally, the silence was broken. ‘And how’s your work, Ma? Any juicy murders?’

  Ben had become rather more involved than I would have wished in my dealings with the case of the murder victim Kerry Tallis. I hesitated for a moment as to whether I should discuss Ingrid Richards with him. I have to be extremely strict about client confidentiality. But in this case, since Ingrid never got as far as being a client – and since she was dead – I could see no harm in talking about it to my son.

  I gave him the briefest of résumés – how Alexandra had approached me, my meeting with Ingrid, the fact that Alexandra’s father was Niall Connor.

  ‘Niall Connor the journalist?’ Ben asked.

  My son’s long had an interest in typography. I think, in an ideal world, that’s where he’d like his career to develop. He once confided in me a long-held dream of one day inventing a definitive font, one to rival Helvetica or Times New Roman. As a result of this ambition, he has always collected newspapers – online, I’m glad to say, so I don’t have a hoarding problem in the immediate family. He’s not just interested in the fonts, though, he devours the content too. From his teenage years, Ben’s always preferred reading newspapers and magazines to novels. So, I wasn’t surprised that he knew about Niall Connor.

  ‘Makes sense that those two would have got together.’

  ‘Ingrid Richards and Niall Connor?’

  ‘Yes. Birds of a feather. Both recklessly brave, just waiting for the next war to rush out to. Both highly successful. And competitive, I bet.’

  He spoke with admiration. I wondered if there was an element of identification. I read that a lot of such characters were depressive, finding, rather in the manner of Graham Greene, that the adrenaline of physical danger allayed their mental anguish.

  Anyway, because it was rarely that I could impress my children, I said, ‘I actually had lunch with Niall Connor yesterday.’

  ‘Did you?’ Yes, Ben was impressed. ‘Why?’

  ‘He wanted to know what I’d thought of Ingrid Richards when I met her.’

  ‘And what did you think, Ma?’

  ‘I thought she was remarkable.’

  ‘Hm.’

  There was another silence. We turned off the A27 towards Worthing.

  Then one of the elephants in the Yeti revealed itself. The big one.

  ‘I’m not in a good place, Ma,’ said Ben.

  When he was in the Morris Tipper and about to leave from Mary Griffin’s place, I couldn’t stop myself from saying, ‘Drive carefully.’

  ‘Why?’ he asked with sudden aggression. ‘Do you think I’m about to drive this thing into a tree at high speed?’

  ‘No, I just—’

  ‘I’d never do that,’ he said. Which reassured me.

  ‘Not to Dodge’s van,’ he added. Which reassured me less. As with Oliver, there was a savage wit that emerged when Ben was depressed.

  There was nothing I could do except let him go. What he’d said was true. When he was at his lowest, his respect for Dodge’s van was considerably higher than his respect for himself. But, at that moment, there was no one I would rather he’d been going to see than Dodge.

  The two of them both had their problems, but got on surprisingly well. I doubted that they ever talked about mental health, but they sensed each other’s vulnerability. And they cooperated well on physical tasks. At one point they had floated the idea of Ben using his artistic skills to paint some of Dodge’s furniture. It hadn’t happened, but it was something that might develop in the future. And something that I think they’d both find therapeutic.

  Anyway, I had to put Ben’s problems on one side for a while. And concentrate on those of Mary Griffin. I steeled myself as I approached her front door.

  Inside the house, what was most upsetting was the state Amy was in. The little girl could not be insulated from her mother’s hysteria and she had become infected by it.

  A good half-hour was needed to bring the pair of them into something approaching calm. By then I’d managed to get Mary on to a sofa with a large mug of tea, and Amy on the floor playing with her replacement Frozen figurines. But the little girl wouldn’t move far. She was constantly checking her mother was still there and clearly suspicious that I was about to spirit Mary away. Poor mite, I couldn’t blame her for her paranoia. No way she could understand the details, but she certainly knew something unpleasant had happened.

  ‘And there really is no one,’ I asked, ‘who you could leave her with, just while you recover?’

  Mary shook her head. ‘He made me cut off contact with all my friends.’

  ‘Family?’

  Another shake of the head. ‘Wouldn’t work. My mother would take Amy like a shot, but she’d spend all her time poisoning Amy’s mind against Craig.’

  Which, given the behaviour of the little girl’s father, might by many people be seen as entirely reasonable. But I knew I couldn’t say that.

  ‘And the police …? There’s no way you might—?’

  Mary shook her head violently.

  ‘But now if it can be proved that Craig set up the ex-con to—’

  ‘No! If I went to the police, he would literally kill me.’

  Hearing the incipient hysteria in her mother’s voice, Amy looked up at her. The tiny bottom lip trembled. It wouldn’t take much to tip her over the edge again.

  ‘And you say,’ asked Mary, ‘that there’s no danger of
Dodge bringing charges?’

  ‘No.’ I said the word ruefully, but she sighed with relief. ‘Incidentally, Mary, I’m sorry but I must ask this. There wasn’t anything with Dodge, was there?’

  ‘What do you mean?’ she asked in complete innocence.

  I spelled it out. ‘Craig clearly thought there was something between you. Something sexual.’

  ‘God, no. Me and Dodge? He’s a lovely guy, but he’s never come on to me or anything like that. He hasn’t even looked me in the eye.’

  ‘No, that’s what I assumed, but I had to ask.’

  ‘Yes. I don’t think you understand Craig’s jealousy, Ellen. Dodge was the one who suffered this time and I feel really guilty about that. But Craig would have reacted the same if the person coming to the house had been just making an Amazon delivery. He doesn’t like me seeing other people. Any other people – particularly men.’

  ‘I thought that was probably it.’

  ‘It’s his way of showing he loves me.’ Her voice had taken on a pleading tone now. ‘Like all the other terrible things Craig has done. They’re all expressions of love.’

  In the face of statements like that, it was difficult to know how I could help Mary Griffin.

  My mobile rang on the way back to Dodge’s at Walberton. I checked the display. Edward Finch.

  I don’t normally do work calls at the weekend, but there was something about the widower’s strange behaviour that intrigued me. I parked on the side of the road and called him back.

  ‘Ellen,’ he said, ‘I’ve been thinking about some of the things you said.’

  ‘Oh? What in particular?’

  ‘About letting go. About how I’ve got to let go of Pauline.’

  ‘It’s part of a process, Edward.’

  ‘Yes, I understand that. But in fact, I’m talking about letting go of Pauline’s possessions, not my memories of her.’

  ‘Good.’

  ‘You said I should get back in touch with you when I was ready to do that … get rid of the possessions, that is.’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Well, I’m ready, Ellen.’

  I arrived at Walberton to find the van neatly parked outside. Which was a relief. When he’s low, Ben can be dangerously unpredictable. The door to Dodge’s live-in workshop was open. I tapped on it as I entered.

  Inside, Dodge was lying on his home-made bed, his pillow propped up on the wooden structure like a bookrest. He had no covering over him. Even in the brief time since I’d last seen him that morning, his facial bruises had entered a new spectrum of colours. The plasters I’d put on had been replaced by some kind of green paste. At the antiquated range on which Dodge did his cooking, Ben was stirring a battered saucepan, taking instructions on how to mix some herbal remedy. The atmosphere between them was warm and relaxed.

  ‘I’ve come to fetch my son,’ I said, ‘but if you’d rather we stayed …’

  ‘No, it’s fine,’ Dodge croaked from the bed. ‘He’s been very helpful.’

  ‘It’s really cool, Ma,’ said Ben. ‘This natural healing stuff. Kind of makes more sense than getting into the clutches of Big Pharma.’

  ‘I’m sure it does.’

  ‘The multinationals are just after profit. They’re capable of inventing diseases just so’s they can sell people remedies for them.’

  ‘Maybe.’ I wasn’t about to get into a discussion of pharmaceutical companies. I said honestly, ‘I can’t claim to know much about it.’

  ‘You don’t need to know anything about natural healing when you’ve got Dodge around. He is the Herbmeister.’

  ‘I know.’ I looked across at the figure on the bed. The sight still made me angry. How could one human being do that to another?

  ‘Dodge, are you sure you don’t want us to stay? I could cook us some lunch or …’

  ‘No. Really. I’ll be fine.’ His words were distorted by his swollen lips. ‘Just need time to heal.’

  ‘Well, you will call me, won’t you, if you need anything?’

  ‘’Course I will. And thanks, Ben, for acting as my nurse.’

  ‘No worries. Glad to help.’

  ‘Obviously, Dodge,’ I said, ‘if there’s any heavy lifting that needs doing over the next few days, Ben’ll be more than ready to help out.’

  ‘Sure thing, mate,’ said my son.

  ‘Thanks, mate,’ said Dodge. ‘I’ll be fine. Like I say, healing just needs time.’

  Because of my recent encounter with Mary Griffin, I couldn’t help saying. ‘And you’re absolutely certain that you don’t want to report what happened to the police?’

  ‘Never been more certain of anything, Ellen.’

  It was rarely that Dodge used my name. The fact that he did seemed to reinforce his determination. I knew I couldn’t sway him.

  Ben followed Dodge’s instructions as to where to put the potion he was brewing, and we were ready to leave.

  ‘Hang on in there, mate,’ said Dodge to my son.

  I’m sure nothing had been said between them about the state of mind Ben was in, but Dodge instinctively empathized, understood.

  SIXTEEN

  I stopped at Sainsbury’s on the way into Chichester, to buy the makings of Sunday lunch. If I’d been on my own, I would have had an omelette but, given the fact that I had a large son with me, I planned something more elaborate.

  Some depressives lose their appetite when they’re down. Ben never has. In that he’s like Oliver. Oliver never lost his appetite for food. Or drink. Particularly drink. Ben’s like him in that too. In so many ways he’s like Oliver. That’s why I worry so much about him. Can a child ever recover from the fact that his father committed suicide? Can the man’s widow ever recover, come to that?

  We agreed on steak for lunch. Didn’t need to ask, really. Ben’s always liked steak. Since he was about five, if there was a birthday meal coming up or some other celebration, he would demand, ‘Steak and Mum’s fat chips.’ (That was before he’d developed the affectation of calling me ‘Ma’.) He never wanted any other vegetables or garnish, just far too much ketchup. Ben’s ultimate comfort food.

  I’d got a couple of cases of Merlot at home, so we’d be all right for that, but I did also buy a new bottle of whisky. Famous Grouse, that’s what Oliver always drank. OK, I’ve read all the medical stuff, I know alcohol’s a depressant, but I also know my son. For Ben, before alcohol’s a depressant it’s a relaxant. And he’s likely to be a lot more confiding and open with me when he’s got a couple of Scotches inside him.

  Anyway, it’s once he’s stopped drinking that he’s likely to get depressed. There was no way I was going to let him out of my sight for the next few days.

  As soon as we arrived back at the house, I got out one of the heavy-bottomed tumblers, put in three lumps of ice and handed Ben the opened bottle of whisky from the cupboard. I poured myself a glass of Merlot and started peeling the potatoes to make ‘Mum’s fat chips’. (No great secret about how I’ve always done them – I always use King Edwards and double-cook.)

  I didn’t initiate conversation, just waited till Ben came round to it. That happened when he’d finished his first Scotch and poured a second one. He began slowly, off the main subject that I knew he’d get round to in time. ‘Dodge didn’t say anything about how he got into that state … you know, who attacked him.’

  ‘Well, that’s Dodge for you.’ A silence. ‘Do you want me to tell you what happened?’

  ‘Not really. Was it something to do with the domestic violence woman?’

  ‘Yes, it was.’

  ‘OK, that’s fine. I don’t need to know more than that. If Dodge didn’t want to volunteer anything …’

  The ice lumps clinked against the glass as he took another long swallow. Then he said, ‘God, Ma, I am hopeless.’

  I have a lot of experience of talking to depressed people and I know the worst thing is to immediately start trying to jolly them along. ‘In what particular way?’ I asked.

  ‘Oh, I don’t
know. Every way. There doesn’t seem to be any direction I can turn without hurting somebody.’

  ‘Are you talking about someone specific that you’re hurting?’ There was no way I was going to bring the word ‘Tracey’ into the conversation. If he did, though, then fine.

  Another silence. Another clink of ice. ‘I just seem to cause trouble for everyone.’

  ‘You don’t cause trouble for me.’

  ‘How can you say that, Ma? I can see how tense you are. You’re watching me like you’re terrified of what I’m going to do next.’

  ‘Not terrified. Just concerned. I don’t like seeing someone I love unhappy.’

  ‘No? Well, you must’ve got used to it over the years, mustn’t you?’

  That was a deliberately hurtful remark. Ben rarely mentioned Oliver by name, but the implication was there.

  ‘Things’d be better,’ said Ben despairingly, ‘if I wasn’t here.’

  ‘Here in Chichester?’

  ‘Here anywhere. If there was no Ben Curtis in the world. It wouldn’t matter. Nobody would notice. Be simpler all round.’

  Again, don’t argue. In this state, he’s not going to be brought around by logic. ‘How long have you been depressed, Ben?’

  ‘All my life.’ He flung out the answer.

  ‘Yes, OK. But you know what I mean. This time. How long have you been this low?’

  ‘I don’t know. It feels like for ever.’

  ‘And you have been taking the anti-depressants?’

  ‘Oh yes. And how does that make me feel? Worse. I’m taking anti-depressants and I’m still depressed. They’re useless. My last lifeline’s gone.’

  It was going to be a long day. I’d heard it all before, in virtually the same words, from Oliver. Many times.

  Though it was May, I lit a fire in the sitting room. Comfort, comfort, comfort. Ben ate well, devouring the steak and ‘Mum’s fat chips’. He also sank a lot of Merlot. When we went through to the sitting room, he took the bottle with him. I did not object. So long as I was with him.

  And I did not attempt to stem the familiar litany of self-hatred. Just listened, nodded, said ‘Yes’, and ‘Mm’.