An Untidy Death

by Simon Brett

  Back in the Yeti, I took out my mobile. I knew I had to ring Edward Finch but felt unaccountably unwilling to do so. Probably because I desperately wanted to ring Ben, but I knew I shouldn’t. Mustn’t be a suffocating mother, must wait for him to contact me. Wait for him to volunteer what – if anything – was happening with Tracey.

  To distract myself again from Ben, I tried to think of something I could do to further what I increasingly saw as my ‘investigation’ into Ingrid Richards’ death.

  It struck me that I could ring Walt, inform him what Alexandra had told me about his presence in Brunswick Square on the relevant evening. I didn’t have a phone number but recalled him proudly naming his company as ‘Walter Rainbird Computing Solutions’. I found the website, rather scruffily put together, I thought, for someone advertising his computer skills. A distinctly amateur look to it, far too many fonts being used in the display. There was a mobile number. I left a message, asking him to call me.

  Then, reluctantly, I rang Edward Finch.

  He had that look on his face that I’d seen before. The schoolboy who had broken the rules but felt rather proud of having broken the rules.

  ‘I’m afraid I’ve backslid,’ Edward said when he opened the front door.

  ‘Show me,’ I said, quite sharply. I don’t like people messing me around and, until I had proof to the contrary, that’s what Edward Finch seemed to be doing.

  ‘Ooh, Ellen,’ he said coyly, ‘you’re very masterful. Or should that be “mistressful”?’

  In no mood for that kind of banter, I pushed past him towards the master bedroom. There was nothing lying on the bed or the floor. I opened the wardrobe.

  Four new dresses were hanging there. All Marks & Spencer. Remarkably similar to some of the ones I had so scrupulously removed.

  ‘You bought these?’

  He nodded sheepishly.

  ‘Why?’

  Edward Finch had a speech prepared to answer that question. ‘I could say the reason I bought them was that I couldn’t manage without something that reminded me of Pauline. If you’d known the garments were here and asked me on the phone why I’d bought them, that’s what I would have said. But that’s not what I’ll say now you’re actually here.’

  ‘Why should it make any difference whether I’m on the phone or here?’ He was playing some game of his own and I was quickly losing patience with it.

  ‘Because I wanted you to come here,’ he said mysteriously.

  ‘Did you? And, incidentally, why wasn’t it you who rang me yesterday? Why did the call come from your friend Cara?’

  ‘I thought you’d be more likely to come if it came from Cara. She would make it sound as if I were in genuine need. That way you wouldn’t have been fighting your feelings.’

  ‘I beg your pardon?’ Edward Finch now seemed to be moving into the outer reaches of sanity.

  He then said, unbelievably, ‘You don’t have to pretend with me, Ellen.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘You know, from the first moment we met, there was something between us.’

  It takes a lot to render me speechless, but that did it.

  ‘Don’t deny your feelings, Ellen. You love me and I love you.’

  That I had not been prepared for. I mean, since I’ve been widowed, I’ve experienced a good few … what shall I call them? Well, to sanitize the reality, let’s say ‘romantic overtures’. I’ve fought off the predictable local gropers. And the male halves of couples who I reckoned Oliver and I knew as friends, but who reckoned I, as a widow, must be ‘gasping for it’. They’re, incidentally, not friends any more.

  I’d never say that Oliver was the only man I’ll ever love. Unlike my mother, I am not prone to making dramatic statements like that. But I do think it’s unlikely that I’ll ever get into another relationship like that with a man. Certainly not a cohabiting relationship. I don’t say that out of self-pity, I’m just being realistic. In my fifties, I’ve got out of the habit of that kind of love. I don’t miss it. I miss Oliver himself every day, but that’s different.

  And friends say, ‘Oh, you’ll be surprised. When the right person comes along …’

  I don’t think I’d have the emotional energy.

  But none of that had prepared me for a come-on from a little creep like Edward Finch. Or for what he said next. ‘You’re about the same size as Pauline was, Ellen. Those dresses would fit you. Do you want to put one on now?’

  As if what he’d said wasn’t offensive enough, he then had the nerve to put his arms round me.

  I’m not a habitual slapper. No, perhaps I should rephrase that, could be misinterpreted … I don’t often slap people. Certainly not clients. In fact, I disapprove of any kind of violence against another human being. But for Edward Finch, I was prepared to make an exception. I lashed out with my right hand and caught him hard across the cheek. The mark reddened instantly.

  He had the nerve to smile and say, ‘Don’t fight it, Ellen. You know you really want me. And you really want to put on one of those dresses.’

  ‘What I really want,’ I said, ‘is to leave this place and never see you again!’

  ‘You say that, but you don’t mean it.’

  ‘Thank you, Edward, but I do know exactly what I mean. And I mean to have nothing more to do with you, beyond sending you an invoice for the time of mine that you’ve already wasted.’

  ‘Time with the one you love is never wasted. You’ll come round, Ellen.’

  I marched to the bedroom door. Then had a thought, stopped, and looked back at him. ‘Tell me something.’

  ‘Anything you want, my love.’

  I winced at the endearment, but said, ‘When we first met, you suggested to me that you had murdered your wife.’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Though you hadn’t, had you?’

  ‘No,’ he admitted.

  ‘Then why the hell did you say it?’

  ‘I wasn’t so sure of you then, Ellen. I wanted to be certain you’d come back again. I thought you’d be intrigued, knowing I had a dark side.’

  I left the bungalow, slamming the front door behind me.

  And found Cara Reece waiting by the garden gate.

  ‘You’ve seen Eddie?’ she asked.

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘And is it true, what he told me?’

  ‘I don’t know what he told you,’ I said curtly, ‘so I don’t know whether it’s true or not.’

  ‘Eddie said you were going to get married.’

  ‘Me? To him? You’ve got to be joking.’

  ‘So you’re not?’

  ‘No! He lives in a fantasy world.’

  ‘Yes,’ said Cara. ‘Eddie’s a very unusual man.’

  ‘That is certainly true.’

  She must have registered the irony in my words, but she didn’t seem upset. Rather the reverse. ‘I was rather worried,’ she said. ‘About you and him.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘Well, I was friends with Eddie and Pauline … you know, all being schoolteachers and … but I never really liked Pauline. It was Eddie I liked. And now Pauline’s gone … I enjoy doing things for Eddie.’

  ‘He’s very lucky to have you,’ I said, not adding that he took her for granted and treated her with contempt.

  ‘Yes. And I’m so lucky to have him … I mean, now I know he hasn’t got you.’

  He never had me! I suppressed the urge to say the words out loud. If Cara Reece wanted to continue being patronized and treated like a doormat by Edward Finch … well, that was up to her. It was clear that she got some perverse satisfaction out of the relationship. Fine by me.

  So long as I didn’t have to have anything more to do with him.

  ‘And actually,’ Cara said rather winsomely, ‘I’m about the same size as Pauline. And you. The new dresses would fit me.’

  I shuddered, said goodbye to her and got into the Yeti.

  My mobile rang while I was still driving through the bungaloid sprawl of Lancing. I parked and ans
wered it.

  ‘Is that Ellen Curtis?’ the voice at the other end asked cautiously.

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘You left a message for me. I’m Phil Dickie.’

  I felt a surge of excitement.

  ‘Hello.’

  ‘Hi.’ He still sounded guarded. ‘Your message said you’re not a journalist.’

  ‘I’m not.’

  ‘Then why are you interested in Ingrid Richards’ death?’

  TWENTY-ONE

  ‘They didn’t understand so much about PTSD back then.’

  Phil Dickie was sitting in his studio in a special chair. It had a complex arrangement of padding, presumably to ease the pressure on his back injuries. A pair of crutches was propped up against his desk. He wore a polo shirt and, incongruously, shorts. I say ‘incongruously’ because they revealed that one of his legs was made of articulated metal. The trainer at the end of it matched the one on his real foot.

  He saw where I was looking and grinned. Whatever the state of the rest of his body, he had a very handsome face. Startlingly blue eyes, short white hair, neatly trimmed white beard. Probably in his mid-sixties, a good decade younger than Ingrid Richards.

  ‘Sorry,’ he said. ‘If I know I’m going to see people I put on a pair of jeans. Today I just thought I’d be editing in here.’

  ‘I gather from your website that you digitize old cine film.’

  ‘Yes. That’s how I started after … you know, when I could think about working again. There was a whole generation of people with yards and yards of cine, family holidays, birthday parties, you know the kind of stuff … which they could only watch by setting up projectors and what-have-you. And they wanted that transferred into a form that could be watched on their computers. So, I set up the business. I don’t do so much of that digitizing now. More family documentaries.’

  ‘Which are …?’

  ‘Sort of tributes to individuals who’re not famous. Say, a couple coming up for their Golden Wedding … their kids want to get together a montage of old photos, bits of video, memories from family and friends talking straight to camera. They give me the stuff, I edit it all together, make a nice neat little package.’

  ‘I should think they’re very popular.’

  ‘Increasingly, I’m glad to say, from a business point of view. And there’ll be more to come with the next generation, the ones who grew up photographing everything on their mobile phones. There’ll be no lack of footage then. Though quite a few tend to do their own editing now. They’ve got the technology to do it on their phones. But a lot of them’re so cack-handed, or so bloody lazy, I think my services will still be required. I’ll have enough work to see me out.’

  Phil Dickie grinned ruefully. ‘Once I’d recovered from my injuries … well, no, I should say, “Once I’d come to terms with my injuries …”, I looked around and thought, “What can I do now?” There was no way I could go back to being a news cameraman. Hadn’t got the mobility, apart from anything else. And also … when I started getting flashbacks from the PTSD … well, I wasn’t that keen on putting myself back into a war zone.

  ‘So, I’d got a bit of money. Though I was freelance, the BBC did give me some compensation because I was injured while working for them. I put the money into this studio and set up my film transfer business. It was never going to recapture the excitement of what I used to do, but it was something. And I needed some kind of income to see me through the rest of my life.’

  His lips twisted into a grimly sardonic expression. ‘Better than nothing, eh?’ he said.

  ‘So how old were you … when it happened?’

  ‘Out in Beirut? Thirty-three. Doing the job I loved. Recently married. Thinking of trying for a baby.’

  ‘And are you still …?’

  Another sceptical twist of the lips. ‘No. I’m afraid my wife decided she didn’t want to be married to a bomb site. That wasn’t what she’d signed up for.’

  I was inevitably reminded of what Tracey had said about her relationship with Ben.

  ‘She got married to someone else soon after. Three kids they’ve got.’

  I didn’t say anything. There wasn’t anything suitable to say.

  ‘So here I am.’ Phil Dickie looked bleakly around his domain. The desk he sat at was a landscape of switches, dials, buttons, and faders. In front of him, an internal window opened on to the small, unlit recording studio.

  ‘Sorry. Enough about me,’ he said. ‘You wanted to talk about Ingrid Richards.’

  ‘Yes. Do you mind?’

  ‘No. Since I’ve heard she’s dead, I’ve wanted to talk to someone about her. But I’ve lost touch with all my old contacts in that world. Deliberately lost touch with them, in most cases. But now I do need to talk about her.’

  I asked, ‘Is that why you agreed to see me?’

  ‘I suppose that was part of it, yes. And particularly because you said you weren’t a journalist.’

  ‘Am I right in deducing you don’t like journalists?’

  ‘I like individual journalists. I liked Ingrid Richards. A lot. That is why I’m talking to you.’

  ‘But journalists as a breed?’

  ‘I used to like them. Used to spend a lot of time drinking with them in the watering holes of various war zones. The Commodore and the Pickwick in Beirut. But after I got injured, I lost my taste for the company of journalists.’

  ‘They hounded you?’

  ‘That’s a very well-chosen word, Ellen. “Hounded.” Yes, that’s what they did. I was in a pretty bad state emotionally. And all they wanted to talk about was the one thing I didn’t want to be reminded of.’

  ‘The car bomb?’

  ‘Exactly. God, they were persistent. I thought their interest was rather ghoulish.’

  ‘So, you never talked to any of them about what had happened?’

  ‘I talked to one. From one of the tabloids, can’t remember which. When I saw what he wrote about me, I swore I’d never talk to another journalist.’

  ‘Had he got the facts wrong?’

  ‘Not that. I wouldn’t have minded that. No, it was the way he made me come across. As pitiful. And that’s the one thing I have never wanted to be. OK, maybe life dealt me a pretty lousy hand, but the last thing I want from anyone is pity!’

  The recollection had made him angry. I didn’t blame him. I’d felt the same after Oliver’s death. I didn’t mind people showing empathy. But pity? No way.

  He continued, ‘Sorry, going off on one there. Let’s get back to Ingrid. That’s who you want to talk about. I want to talk about her too. We lost touch completely after … But I always thought our paths would cross again at some point. Now, of course, they won’t … and I feel … kind of … Like I say, I want to talk about her. Incidentally, that was a pretty sad way for her to die, wasn’t it? In a fire in her flat. A domestic bloody accident? The Ingrid Richards I knew may have been many things, but she was never careless about her personal safety. Still, maybe as she got older, the marbles may have got shaken about a bit and—’

  ‘She still had all her wits about her, Phil.’

  ‘Ah. So, are you implying that her death might not have been an accident?’

  ‘There are people of that opinion,’ I replied judiciously.

  ‘Really?’ He was silent for a moment as he took in the implications of that. ‘How long had you known her, Ellen?’

  ‘Only met her the once.’ And I gave him a quick résumé of my professional involvement through Alexandra.

  ‘Yes, I did hear Ingrid had a daughter.’ Phil Dickie scratched his beard thoughtfully. ‘I remember being gobsmacked when I heard that. So out of character. I couldn’t see the Ingrid I knew interrupting her career to have a baby.’

  ‘Well, she did. Do you know who the father was?’

  He shook his head.

  ‘Niall Connor,’ I said.

  ‘Bloody hell!’ He really was taken aback by that.

  ‘Did you know him?’

  ‘Yes. No
t well. But I spent some evenings drinking with him and a bunch of other correspondents in the bar at the Commodore. He was a bit of a Jack-the-Lad, always chatting up the birds’ – he coloured – ‘as we used to call them back then. Probably not allowed to say that these days. Offend someone, no doubt.’

  ‘Might offend birds?’ I suggested.

  ‘Hm. All I know is that everything I say seems to offend someone these days. But Niall … Niall and Ingrid …’ He shook his head in bewilderment. ‘That’s a match-up I’d never had considered in my wildest dreams.’

  ‘Presumably,’ I said, ‘you didn’t see much of Ingrid in the months after you were both injured?’

  ‘Didn’t see much of anyone. Or anything. I was put into an induced coma out in Beirut, then flown back to Brize Norton. In and out of various military hospitals over the next eighteen months, having operation after operation. Not a lifestyle conducive to keeping in touch with people.’

  ‘You don’t know how long Ingrid was hospitalized, do you?’

  He shook his head. ‘Not as long as me, that’s for sure. I heard from someone it was only a couple of months. Maybe three or four. She wasn’t as severely injured as I was. I suppose that’s my claim to fame. I put my body between Ingrid Richards and the car bomb, so I took most of the shrapnel. How bloody heroic.’ He let out a bitter laugh. ‘Be more heroic if I’d done it deliberately, though, wouldn’t it?’

  ‘Mm.’ I was following another line of thought. ‘I was just wondering … if Ingrid was unconscious for some months in hospital, when she did come round and find out she was pregnant, it might have been too late for her to have an abortion.’

  That would tie in with what Ingrid had said to me about her pregnancy with Alexandra and why she wasn’t aborted. ‘Circumstances meant that that was not an option.’ Such circumstances might well have been being treated in hospital for shrapnel wounds.

  The cameraman shrugged his shoulders at my suggestion. ‘That’s possible. I’m afraid I don’t know. I was totally out of it at the time.’

  ‘So, Phil,’ I asked, ‘do you literally remember nothing from when the car bomb detonated to when you woke up in an English hospital?’

  ‘I do remember the moment of impact,’ he said, ‘and a bit after that. I think it was a time before I passed out. There was a sort of moment of shock before I felt the pain from the shrapnel wounds to the back of my legs, and my back and … everywhere.’