by Simon Brett
TWENTY-FIVE
I was technically ahead of the police, in that I spoke to Ingrid Richards’ murderer before they did. But they were way ahead of me in terms of building a case against Grace Bellamy. Of course, they had to have all their ducks in a row before they could bring charges against her.
After I left the Primrose Hill house, in a state of total exhaustion, I had been intending to ring Detective Sergeant Unwin and tell her where my research had led me. But, fortunately, when I got back to Chichester, I rang Alexandra Richards first.
Walt had persuaded her she had to come clean, tell Unwin and Gupta that she’d lied about staying in Brunswick Square all that evening. I don’t know whether she told them that she’d lied because her absentee father had asked her to. And because she’d hoped that her obeying him would lead to a closer relationship between them.
Then Walt had volunteered to the police what he had seen from his car that evening in Hove. All the stuff he’d told me. Including the incriminating sight of Grace Bellamy entering the building.
Once they had a suspect, presumably the police could find forensic evidence of her presence in the burned-out flat. Or maybe she’d confessed to them, as she virtually had to me. I didn’t know. The police tend not to share the details of their investigations with members of the public.
It struck me that they probably didn’t contact Phil Dickie. Though he’d been a vital part of my researches, he wasn’t relevant to theirs. While I believed Niall Connor had killed Ingrid Richards so that she would not publish her memoir and expose the treachery by which he had achieved the greatest scoop of his career, Phil Dickie was a vital part of my enquiries.
But what the police were investigating turned out to be no more than a case of jealousy, a wife murdering her husband’s lover. Commonplace stuff, really.
As a result, I never heard again from Detective Sergeants Unwin and Gupta, or anyone else involved in their investigation. Which was fine by me.
Back in Chichester, I continued running SpaceWoman, taking on new clients and, I hope, nurturing old ones.
I sent an invoice to Edward Finch. It was paid by return of post. A cheque, that increasingly rare object. No covering note. Thank God.
I don’t know what’s happened to him. I don’t care. But I’m pretty sure, whatever he’s doing, he still patronizes and takes advantage of the long-suffering Cara Reece. I’d be very surprised if he’s allowed her to try on any of the new dresses which would have fitted Pauline. And me. Yuk. It makes me nauseous to think of it.
Minnie died at the end of the summer. And, predictably, I felt saddened. I even shed a tear when the care-home van delivered her collection of books about London which she’d left me in her will.
I haven’t looked at them yet. Maybe I never will. I still don’t feel comfortable about London.
Mary Griffin … Oh, Mary Griffin. I wish I could say I’d been like a fairy godmother and solved her problems. But life doesn’t work like fairy stories. Yes, technically she’s safe for the moment. She and Amy are in the house with their nice new furniture. I still drop in from time to time to see how they’re doing. Amy’s started school. Mary’s made contact with some of the other mums outside the school gate. But she doesn’t dare invite them to her house.
After what happened to Dodge, she still feels she’s being watched. All the time. And the day will come when her husband Craig is released from prison.
Mary Griffin lives in permanent fear of that moment. And I wish I could take away that fear with some kind of magic wand. But I know I can’t.
I’ve had virtually no contact from Alexandra Richards since that day when I came back from Primrose Hill. No reason why I should, I suppose, though I’m pretty sure Walt has discouraged her from getting in touch.
She did ring once, though, to say they were getting married. Of course, I offered lots of congratulations and said I was sure they’d be very happy together. Well, that’s what you do, isn’t it?
But I’m not sure marriage will bring long-term happiness to Alexandra Richards. I think Walt Rainbird, in his own, different, way, could prove to be quite as coercive a husband as Craig Griffin. Maybe I’m being cynical, though. And maybe Alexandra had been so starved of affection since birth that she’d welcome even the smothering kind.
Unsurprisingly, I haven’t heard anything from Niall Connor. There was a big fuss in the press when Grace Bellamy came to trial and was convicted of murder. She was given a relatively light sentence in quite a relaxed prison. No doubt she’s already writing a series of articles and a book about the experience.
On the domestic front, well … What I feared was inevitable has happened. Ben has once again dropped out of university. I’ve had very friendly conversations with someone who I think described himself as Ben’s ‘pastoral tutor’. He says he’s sure Ben can restart his second year next year, but I wonder. It’s happened once before. Ben could be in his thirties before he finishes his undergraduate course.
Right now, he needs to be at home with me, and I like that more than I should. He’s got to face the real world at some point, and I know I should be encouraging him to get out and do something.
He claims he is doing things. He says he’s working off his own bat on the ‘Riq and Raq’ animation, but again I wonder … Certainly spends a lot of time on his computer in his room but I’m not sure if he’s achieving anything. I’d be delighted to be proved wrong, though. Some award for a Best Short Animation. I can dream. Mothers do about their children. Dream, and worry. Both go with the job description.
I’m afraid there’s been no mention of Tracey since Ben’s been back at home.
One good thing that’s developed is that he’s done more work with Dodge, painting the furniture. It looks wonderful, they’ve done some brilliant stuff.
But even there I see problems ahead. True to his principles, Dodge doesn’t want to make any money out of what they create. He wants to give it away to deserving causes. And Ben feels they should be more commercial, actually sell the stuff. It’s certainly of a standard to compete in the market.
I know where Ben’s coming from. It’s not greed. It’s guilt. He feels he should be making money, bringing in some income to defray the expenses of his living at home. It’s not a problem for me from the financial point of view but I know, for Ben, it’s a matter of pride.
Oh well, no doubt things will sort themselves out, one way or the other. And at least I know where my son is and what he’s doing. Ben’s so vulnerable and I love him so much. Too much, perhaps?
As for his sister … well, Jools and I have certainly had more contact since I went to Herne Hill. Still only brief phone calls, but more texts. All at a very superficial level. With me, as with Fleur, she’d gone back to the easier route of ‘being someone else’. But I treasured that moment when she’d been ‘herself’ with me. And, knowing it was possible, I live in hope of it happening again some time. I’d have fallen apart long ago if I hadn’t been an optimist at heart. Optimists frequently fly in the teeth of the evidence.
And, as to whether or not Jools had a hoarding problem … well, that was a subject that just didn’t come up.
Then, of course, I had Fleur. The wonderful, infuriating, self-obsessed Fleur.
I remember, my first meeting with Alexandra, I felt a bond with her when she said her mother was famous. I think, if I was given the choice, I’d rather have spent time with Ingrid Richards than Fleur Bonnier any day. Unless, of course, I was her daughter.
