Homicide in Herne Hill

by Alice Castle

  Ben snatched it back. ‘I’m enjoying it,’ he remonstrated.

  For a second, she was on the point of explaining herself, then realised she’d accidentally given the book enormous extra cachet by appearing to disapprove. For once, she did the wise thing and kept her mouth shut.

  Looking over his head, Nina caught her eye. ‘Cup of tea?’

  ‘God, I’d love one, and what I’d love most is a cup of tea I haven’t made myself. Potter drinks tea all day long, and keeps asking me about coffee, even though he must know there isn’t any kind of coffee maker, not even a cafetiere or any instant or anything. It’s his office, he or Letty must be buying the tea bags in industrial quantities. You don’t think he’s got Alzheimer’s, do you?’

  To Beth’s surprise, Nina burst out laughing, her red-gold curls bobbing. ‘Oh, that’s a good one. No, he’s just trying to make you offer to go down the road to the deli and get him a cappuccino from there.’

  ‘You’re kidding! Why doesn’t he just come out and say it?’

  ‘Well, that’s probably a bit of a tribute to the fact that he sort-of knows you… he can’t quite order you around the same way as he does me. You know his wife, you probably all have lovely dinners together and discuss your mortgages…’

  ‘Not if I can help it,’ said Beth, thinking grimly of an awkward, oh-so-apparently casual kitchen supper at Belinda’s that she’d been summoned to a few months ago, presumably because someone had dropped out at the last minute. It featured lumpy artisanal bread that Belinda swore she’d baked herself (although they’d all seen the poor au pair covered in flour when they walked in), and a velouté of artichoke soup that had had the duvets of Dulwich rippling with its painful gastro-intestinal consequences for days to come. Beth had made her excuses and left as soon as she could.

  ‘Right, well, if he thinks I’m actually going to volunteer, he can… just wait, then,’ said Beth, glancing at Ben and Wilf’s innocent ears and manfully swallowing a series of choice Anglo-Saxon syllables.

  ‘He does pay me back,’ said Nina. ‘And if I’m out of the office, he can’t dictate those reports to me,’ she twinkled.

  ‘Yes, the reports. Thanks very much for warning me about those.’ Beth’s heavy irony briefly weighed down her end of the sofa. Nina, however, seemed cheerfully untouched by nuance, so Beth ploughed on. ‘And that reminds me, do you have a notebook anywhere? I’m just writing on loose sheets of paper and he keeps giving me these looks, like he’s declaiming the works of Shakespeare and I’m scratching them out in mud with a stick.’

  ‘He got through the last batch of notebooks. Got some on order, they’ll arrive soon,’ said Nina, getting up and turning on the oven. ‘Shall I do the tea? You’re knackered, I can tell.’

  ‘I don’t know how you do it, full time. It’s a mixture of unbelievable boredom and really hard typing,’ said Beth, yawning as widely as a hippo.

  ‘Welcome to my world.’ Nina delved into the freezer and brought out a selection of boxes. Beth didn’t really feel like beige food after a day in the beige office, but she definitely didn’t feel like cooking for herself either. She smiled at Nina. ‘Thanks for this.’

  ‘No, thank you – and have you managed to find anything, yet?’

  Beth sat up a little straighter. She didn’t mind admitting she was quite disappointed with that side of the exploit, but the tiredness she was feeling from the routine work was acting as a sort of buffer. If she wasn’t careful, she’d start forgetting why she was even there in the first place. She could see now how people got trapped for years in jobs they hated. There was something about office life that sucked your sense of agency from you.

  Tomorrow, she was going to have to try to rise above it, keep her eye on the prize, watch carefully for anything that pointed to genuine wrongdoing and wasn’t just mild exploitation of office staff. As long as he didn’t start dictating at her again.

  Chapter Nine

  As it turned out, it was a visit from Letty that finally put Beth on the right track. Everything had been plodding along as usual in the sea of seagrass. Potter was firmly in his office and hadn’t even been out for lunch. Beth had eaten a sandwich of her own concoction at her desk, trying to economise after three days of pricey offerings from the deli or nasty processed meal deals from the Sainsbury’s Local. There’d been oceans of tea. There was a ton of dictation. And now, in the mid-afternoon, there was the soothing tip-tap as Beth converted Potter’s legal circumlocutions into neat paragraphs. Their meaning still escaped her, but she was beginning to find the neatness of the finished product disturbingly satisfying. If she wasn’t careful, she’d go into a trance and wake up fifteen years later, her youth behind her, and only oceans of gobbledegook legal reports to look forward to.

  Suddenly the office door burst open and Letty stood there, quivering. As usual, she was dressed in clothes that brilliantly accentuated the slightest movement, drapey crepe fabrics, a waterfall coatigan against the December chill, layers of scarves, and a cashmere hat crowned with the de rigeur fur bobble on the top. All these elements seemed to be moving independently, as Letty herself swayed from side to side, her voice rising to a wail.

  ‘Lancelot! Lancelot!’

  Beth sat for a moment, stunned, and wondering if she’d somehow found herself in a Knights of the Round Table drama. What on earth was the woman on about? Letty would make a stunning Guinevere, it was true. That left Potter as a rather surprising Arthur. He had the physical stature, she could see that, but he’d hardly have time to pull Excalibur from the stone, what with all the report writing. And where did that leave Beth herself? Some sort of troglodyte peasant, presumably. She felt like touching her forelock to Letty now, but luckily, she was saved the bother as Potter rushed out from his inner sanctum.

  ‘Letty! Darling? What is it?’

  ‘It’s Lancelot,’ said Letty, swaying into Potter’s arms and collapsing on his shoulder. Beth ducked behind her laptop so that she was as inconspicuous as possible, wondering whether she should get up and leave them to it. But it was much too fascinating. As Potter murmured, petted, and soothed, Letty broke out of Potter’s embrace and looked up at him, a tear tracing a leisurely route down her long, pale face.

  ‘He’s dead,’ Letty intoned.

  Potter took a step back. ‘What? How?’

  ‘He wouldn’t wake up this morning. I’ve just come from the vet’s. She thinks it might have been some sort of h-h-heart attack.’ More tears joined the first.

  By this time, even Beth felt sad. She didn’t know what Lancelot was, or had been – it could have been anything from a fish to a ferret. But the mention of the vet told her he was a pet. She couldn’t bear to think what would happen when Magpie eventually… but no, she didn’t want to go there. Couldn’t, in fact. Luckily, she’d made a deal with Maggers when she’d been just a feisty kitten that she’d live forever, and as far as she was concerned, they were both going to stick to that.

  ‘Can I get you a cup of tea, Letty?’ she asked, leaning forward out of her hiding place.

  Letty started. ‘Oh, Beth, didn’t see you there. Um, yes. Or actually, no, I should get back to the children. I’ve got to break it to them,’ she gulped down another sob.

  Potter leapt into action. ‘Right, I’m coming with you. It’s too much for you on your own, Lets. Give me a minute, I’ll just get my…’

  He hared off towards his office, leaving the two women awkwardly contemplating each other. Beth gazed at Letty, still fragile and beautiful despite, or maybe even because, of the tears. That slight hint of steel seemed to have been submerged in salty water. Letty sniffed and tried a weak smile. Beth rummaged in her bag and passed over a tissue.

  ‘Thanks. You know how it is…’ Letty said tremulously.

  ‘Absolutely,’ said Beth, heart wrung. ‘We have a cat…’

  ‘A cat? Oh, but it’s not the same at all, is it?’ Letty was dismissive.

  ‘Sorry, what kind of animal was…?’

  ‘Lancelot
?’ said Letty sniffily, seeming cross that Beth didn’t know. ‘You know Lancelot. Everyone knows him… knew him. My Great Dane?’

  And suddenly, Beth realised that she did, of course, know Lancelot. It would have been extremely hard to miss him, as he was, had been, almost as tall as Beth herself. A dappled grey, exactly like the sort of rocking horse that Beth had loved when young, he was a huge beast of a dog who’d lolloped through the Village at Letty’s side. Beth had always given him plenty of space, in case he mistook her for a chew toy. At one time, Letty used to bring him to every school pick-up and drop-off, but gradually the rules about Dulwich’s schnoodles, cockapoos, and labradoodles being paraded in front of the children in the playground were tightened up. It wasn’t so much the dogs biting – the mummies, however, had definitely been known to snarl over who had the cutest four-legged friend.

  ‘So sorry, Letty. He was… quite a dog. What happened? Was it an accident?’

  Letty raked Beth with a glance, a look which instantly made Beth wonder if she had lipstick on her teeth (no, because she never wore any), or had her shirt buttoned up the wrong way (a distinct possibility, but not the case today), or was just wearing something hopelessly out of date (a certainty). She didn’t deign to reply, which left them both in silence.

  Beth felt increasingly awkward. Letty, meanwhile, stood gazing off to some unseen mid-point, swaying very slightly, the fluffy hairs on her pom-pom hat trembling slightly with her movement. Hours seemed to pass. Beth cleared her throat, struggling to think of something to say that might ease the situation. Maybe she should offer another platitude about the dog’s death? And attempt to make it a bit more heartfelt this time?

  Potter emerged at that moment, coat on, briefcase in hand, and she was spared the excruciating task.

  It wasn’t that Beth didn’t care, she really was sad for poor Lancelot. There’d certainly be a large – very large – gap in the Dulwich dog population from this day forth. The children would no doubt be devastated. And she knew how terrible she would feel if she had to tell Ben… but she wasn’t going there. She did get the feeling, though, that nothing she could have said or done would have appeased Letty, short of weeping, wailing, and slashing her own wrists. None of which she was mad keen to do on behalf of someone else’s dog in the middle of the day in Herne Hill.

  Taking Letty by the arm, Potter ushered her towards the door as gently as though she were made of thistledown and might blow away at any second. ‘Beth, you can lock up, can’t you? Just finish up what you have there, get the copies ready for the morning, finish off that filing – and whatever you do, don’t forget to put the phone on answer mode,’ he said abruptly over his shoulder as they rushed out.

  ‘Yes, boss,’ muttered Beth under her breath to the closing door. Though why he was getting her to bother with the answering machine, she wasn’t sure. No-one ever seemed to ring, even during office hours. Was he seriously expecting a rush of divorces and wills to overtake Dulwich in the hours of darkness? She supposed he must be living in hope. They needed the business, after all.

  She’d give the couple a good five minutes to get clear of Herne Hill and zoom off in their enormous Volvo, all the way from SE24 to SE21. It was a distance of less than three hundred yards up the road, they’d be lucky to make it into second gear, but of course it was essential to make the trip by car. They lived in a very nice house indeed, not far from Beth’s own, but probably four times the size. What was it about the Potters and scale, she wondered? Both were outrageously tall, in her view – though admittedly she had a paradoxically low benchmark for tallness – their kids already promised to be similarly rangy, and even their dog had been ridiculously big.

  Beth couldn’t help it, but she wondered what on earth one did with a dead Great Dane. Burying him in the garden would be almost as troublesome as disposing of a person, surely? She’d never been in the Potters’ garden – or the house, come to that – but it was lucky it was sizeable, to accommodate a corpse like that. Maybe they’d opt for cremation.

  Even more of a mystery was what had actually happened to the dog. By her count, this was the third to have died recently in Dulwich. What on earth was going on?

  Chapter Ten

  Paul Potter opened the front door and ushered his wife in. To his relief, she seemed to have calmed a little on the journey, and by the time they’d crunched to a halt on the gravel drive in front of the house, she was quiet, a tiny sniff the only sign anything was out of the ordinary. He turned to her and tenderly undid her seatbelt, noting the delicate pinkness of the tip of her nose where she’d rubbed it with his tissue. He couldn’t help it, he slid a hand possessively down her cashmere arm, and leaned in to kiss her cheek. She moved away, imperceptibly, and he straightened up.

  ‘You’re right; no point putting it off. The kids have got to be told.’

  ‘I wish you’d call them children, kids are baby goats,’ said Letty grumpily, but the reprimand was automatic.

  The poor woman was distraught, he thought, stepping out of the car and slamming the door. Normally, he’d listen to that satisfyingly heavy clunk with an almost paternal pride, he loved this car, but now there were more important things to think about. He scrabbled to open the door before Letty did, and held it open for her courteously.

  ‘No, no, you go in first. I just can’t face them,’ she said tremulously.

  He stepped forward, blind for once to the stunning décor that took most people aback. The house, from the outside, was not exceptional; large and imposing, yes, but architecturally without enormous merit. Inside, though, Letty – and an extremely expensive interior designer, who never got a shred of credit for the hardest project of her working life – had created a massive open white space, dominated by a glass staircase soaring up to the next level, juxtaposed against a silvery two-metre-wide mural of trees in a forest. A spectacular pendant light fell twenty feet from the ceiling, shards of brightness splintering from its custom-made, Nordic-inspired shade. It was this house, as much as her dead-straight blonde hair, that made people think Letty must have Scandiwegian blood. The truth was more prosaic – she was from Dalston, but she hadn’t watched three seasons of Borgen and four of The Bridge for nothing.

  Hearing their parents clattering around below, the three little Potters ran forward and pressed their dear tiny noses against the glass balustrade, to their mother’s audible distress. Paul, imagining it was the prospect of breaking the dreadful news about Lancelot, immediately wrapped a protective arm around Letty’s slim shoulders and hugged her tight. She gave an infinitesimal smile and shrugged him off, announcing loudly to the children, ‘Come down here, Daddy’s got something to tell you.’

  Then she strode rapidly into the kitchen, where Potter could hear her opening the fridge, unscrewing a bottle, and glugging its contents into one of their enormous crystal glasses, big as a goldfish bowl.

  The children scampered downstairs stairs, happy to see their daddy so early in the day, and clustered around him. He hugged them into his waist, pressing a kiss onto each blonde head. Letty had been angelically fair at this age, too; he’d seen the pictures. She’d only needed chemical assistance after having children. She’d told him it often took women that way.

  ‘Listen, my darlings, Daddy’s got something very difficult to tell you. Let’s sit here on the stairs and I’ll explain everything,’ said Potter, looking into each face in turn. They were such beautiful kids – children. The same oval faces as their mother, with eyes of precious lapis lazuli fringed with sable lashes and lips like blush suede. He drank in their features, the unblemished skin, the world of possibilities within each little head, struggling to see any of his own clunky DNA in these miraculous creatures.

  ‘I’m so sorry, my loves. It’s very sad news.’

  Chapter Eleven

  Beth slid off her chair. The Potters were long gone, and the office was quieter than the grave. She might not have another opportunity like this for days, given Paul’s propensity for sitting tight.
Still moving stealthily, which she realised was quite ridiculous given that she was alone in a place which hardly ever attracted a visitor, she popped to the tiny kitchenette, opened the cupboard, then realised in annoyance that she’d have to wheel her chair over again. That shelf was just too high for her. Still, it was the work of only a few moments to hop on, delve, and hop off, and she soon had the cool, hard shape of the key in her hand. She was almost tiptoeing as she made her way the few paces over to Potter’s office, slid the key in the lock, and opened the door.

  The room was slightly less immaculate than usual, which was not surprising given the crisis that had seen Potter bolting for home. There were a few papers out on his desk, including, Beth was amused to note, The Daily Telegraph turned down to that day’s crossword. So, he really wasn’t as busy as he liked to pretend to be. She also saw, to her annoyance, that he’d been annotating one of her beautifully-typed reports, changing things around and even challenging the spelling of a couple of words. Where did the man get off?

  But Beth was wasting time, allowing her blood pressure to rise when she should be keeping icy cool and finally plumbing the depths of the filing cabinets. She turned to face them, also getting an eyeful of the Rothko, its sullen yellows and dirty ochre shades seeming to hum with meaning across the room. Perhaps Letty had chosen the picture because she, herself, seemed so rarely to be entirely still, with her shimmering hair and fluid clothes.

  Beth stepped over decisively and pulled at the top handle of the cabinet. Not surprisingly, it held firm. So, he had locked everything; she’d rather thought he might. Potter, outwardly so confident and commanding, seemed to be strangely paranoid about his working life, or at least he was now she was there. But maybe that was normal in legal offices? Beth supposed this bank of information was full of details about people’s lives, estates, even loves, certainly their wishes about who would get what and, perhaps more crucially, who wouldn’t.