She’s pretty sure that this is where Dex Challoner lives. She looked on his Twitter account earlier and amidst the thinly disguised self-promotion (‘Wonder what Tod would make of the new flats in Docklands #highrisemurder #dexchallonerbooks’) she finds a picture of an artistically disordered desk #writeratwork. Location: Shoreham. It has to be Millionaires’ Row. She knows the insides of the house very well from the website. White rooms with doors opening out to the ever-changing sea, decks large enough to host a cocktail party, breakfast islands, L-shaped sofas, modern art, antique mirrors, Swedish lighting, car ports. But, when she parks on the coast road, none of this is visible. The backs of the houses are blank and intimidating, high walls with barred windows, security gates bristling with intercom. You can’t see the sea from this side either but she can hear it whispering in the dark.
Harbinder doesn’t know which house is Challoner’s. She’s quite prepared to press every intercom button shouting ‘Police’ but she sees immediately that this won’t be necessary. The third house along has a flagpole and, lit up by judiciously placed floodlights, is a banner bearing the gunsight insignia that Harbinder has already seen on many best-selling books. What sort of person lives in a high-security house and then flies a flag with their logo on it? She’s about to find out.
A man’s voice answers the speakerphone and presses enter as soon as she says the magic word, ‘Police’. Harbinder goes through the gate to find double doors opening of their own accord. Then she’s in a hallway lined with (yes!) spotlit modern paintings. A chrome and glass staircase leads off to her right and, in the distance, she can see huge windows reflecting the darkness of the sea.
A man is standing at the foot of the stairs, glass in hand. Harbinder recognises him immediately as the author of High Rise Murder.
‘Mr Challoner? I’m Detective Sergeant Harbinder Kaur of the West Sussex Police. I’d like to ask you some questions about Peggy Smith.’
Dex Challoner puts the glass down and runs his hand through his hair. ‘Didn’t I see you earlier? At Peggy’s funeral?’
‘That’s right,’ says Harbinder. ‘Is there somewhere we can talk?’
Challoner leads her along a corridor to the room with the windows. It is, of course, furnished with huge white sofas and glass tables. The three non-window walls are all lined with books. Even so, Harbinder doesn’t think that the family spends much time in this room. There’s no TV, for one thing. She knows from Wikipedia that Challoner is married to an actress called Mia Hastings and they have two school-age children, Finn and Maisie.
‘My wife and children live in London during the week,’ says Dex, in answer to Harbinder’s question. ‘I need time alone to write.’
Harbinder can imagine that you need peace and quiet to write. For most authors, though, this probably means a computer terminal in their bedroom, not a five-bedroom seaside house (cost, approximately 3.4 million). She had no idea that writing could make you so rich. She thinks of her friend, Clare, who teaches creative writing. No wonder so many people shell out for her course.
They sit on the white sofa and Dex offers tea, coffee or ‘something stronger’. At least he doesn’t automatically assume that she’s teetotal. Harbinder asks for tea, herbal if possible. According to the police manuals, it’s meant to be a good thing to accept offers of food and drink as it makes the interviewee feel that they’re in charge. Dex brings her peppermint tea in a Tod France mug. He has also topped up his own glass with what looks like whisky.
Harbinder asks how he knew Peggy. Dex looks surprised at the question but says, easily enough, that she was friends with his mother, who had also lived in Seaview Court.
‘Ma wasn’t the easiest of characters but she and Peggy hit it off immediately.’
He has a strange accent, partly upper-class English, partly something that could be Australian. He’s dressed in jeans and black jumper and is wearing moccasins that probably double as slippers. Apart from the shoes, he could be wearing the gunman’s clothes which is probably an indicator that he’s innocent. Surely any self-respecting criminal would get changed, at the very least?
‘Ma was from Poland,’ says Dex. ‘So she didn’t suffer fools gladly.’ The same phrase was used of Peggy at her funeral, Harbinder remembers. She can’t quite see how an inability to suffer fools is linked to being Polish. In that case, maybe Harbinder has some Polish blood mixed in with that over-tolerant Indian stuff.
‘What do you mean by that?’ she says.
‘She could be very touchy,’ says Dex. ‘Always thinking that people were being rude, cheating her out of money, that sort of thing. It made going to the shops with her rather a trial.’ He smiles.
‘Did you get to know Peggy through your mother?’ asks Harbinder.
‘That’s right,’ says Dex. ‘Just popped in to see the old lady one day and there was Peggy sitting on the sofa, the two of them drinking sherry and talking about spies and contract killers and gruesome murders.’
This is interesting. Despite everything, Harbinder finds herself warming to Dex. There was real affection in the way he said ‘the old lady’ and at least he had popped in to see his elderly mother, unlike lots of adult children.
‘Was Peggy interested in murder?’ says Harbinder.
To her surprise, Dex laughs. ‘Was she? She was obsessed with it. She’d read every crime novel going and she loved true-crime stuff too, even the podcasts. She and Ma used to watch Midsomer Murders together and Peggy always guessed who did it before the first ad break.’
Harbinder’s mother also watches Midsomer Murders, but ‘for the lovely old houses’; she doesn’t seem to notice that most of them contain a corpse.
‘I noticed that you credit Peggy on a lot of your books,’ says Harbinder. ‘In one of them it says “thank you for the murders” .’
Dex laughs again. ‘There was no one like Peggy for thinking up really gory ways for people to die. She was good on plotting too. She gave me ideas for quite a few of my books. It started out as a joke at first but then it became a tradition. I always send her an early manuscript of my books and I always credit her in the acknowledgements.’
‘So she helped you?’
Dex bristles slightly. ‘I wouldn’t say “helped” exactly. She had some good ideas. I didn’t always use them. It was really just something to keep Peggy entertained.’
Harbinder remembers the note. Peggy, darling. Please help! That didn’t sound like keeping an elderly lady out of mischief. It sounded as if Dex relied on Peggy to get him out of plot holes of his own making. Do help me, darling. I’ve got to give Miles the rough draft next week. Miles was Dex’s editor; Harbinder had noted his name in the acknowledgements. His agent was someone called Jelli Walker-Thompson. Could that really be a name? Harbinder thinks she prefers the Dex of the note—harassed, flippant, pleading—to the suave figure in front of her.
‘Mr Challoner,’ she says, ‘today, when Peggy’s carer was boxing up her books, a man broke into the flat and threatened her at gunpoint. Do you have any idea why this would have happened?’
Dex stares at her. ‘Gunpoint? What are you talking about?’
‘A man broke into Peggy’s flat and threatened her carer with a gun,’ says Harbinder. She knows that people often have to hear this sort of thing twice. ‘The man then left, taking with him a copy of a book called Thank Heaven Fasting.’
‘Thank Heaven Fasting?’
‘Yes. Do you know it?’
‘No, I’ve never heard of it.’
‘It’s by a writer called Sheila Atkins. Published in 1938.’
‘Ah, well. I don’t read much golden-age stuff.’ Dex swallows the rest of his drink in one gulp. Harbinder notes that he holds the glass in his right hand.
‘So you’ve no idea why that book could have been so significant?’
‘No,’ says Dex, putting the glass down on the coffee table. ‘But like I said, Peggy read all sorts of stuff. She was a real crime addict.’
‘Where were
you at six o’clock this evening?’
Dex jumps as if she has hit him. ‘You can’t mean . . . you can’t suspect . . .’
‘Just to eliminate you from the enquiry,’ says Harbinder.
Dex takes a deep breath and seems, consciously, to calm himself. ‘I got back from the funeral, changed and went to the gym. I try to go every Monday, Wednesday and Friday.’
‘What time did you get to the gym?’
‘About five. I left at six-thirty. There’ll be records. You have to sign in and out. You can check for yourself.’
Harbinder would definitely be checking. ‘What time did you get back here?’
‘About seven. I made myself some supper. Chicken and salad. Then I settled down to do some work. I often write at night.’
Gym visits, chicken and salad. Dex Challoner is certainly determined to stay fit. To be fair, though, he’s quite trim and he doesn’t look his age (sixty, according to Wiki).
‘Do you have any idea who the gunman could have been?’
‘No. I mean I write about things . . . I don’t know these people in real life . . .’
He sounds genuinely rattled. Harbinder is about to ask more about how he researches his books when her phone buzzes. She ignores it at first but then thinks that it might be Donna.
But it’s her dad. This is a surprise because Dad never texts. He only leaves sarcastic voice messages on the lines of, ‘This is your poor white-haired old father. Have you forgotten me?’
The text is brief and to the point.
Mum injured. Can you come home?
* * *
HARBINDER BREAKS THE speed limit and gets there before the paramedics. The flat has its own entrance next to the shop. Harbinder opens the door and finds Bibi lying at the foot of the stairs.
‘I tripped over Sultan,’ she says, trying to smile.
‘That bloody dog.’
‘It wasn’t his fault,’ says Bibi, quick as ever to defend their German shepherd, often delusionally referred to as a ‘guard dog’. ‘He was lying on the bottom step, keeping watch.’ Harbinder has no doubt that the animal was sleeping soundly in the most inconvenient place possible.
‘I think she’s broken her leg,’ says Deepak, who is hovering in the background, uncharacteristically at a loss. Sultan is at his side, also looking worried.
‘I think so too,’ says Harbinder. Her mother’s leg is bent at an angle that makes her feel slightly sick. She sits on the bottom step and puts her arm round Bibi. Her skin feels cold under the thin sari.
‘Where’s Kush?’ says Harbinder. Her oldest brother usually does the late stint at the shop, probably because he’s scarier than the muggers.
‘It’s his kick-boxing night,’ says Deepak. ‘He’s not answering his phone.’
‘He shouldn’t leave you here on your own,’ says Harbinder.
‘I can cope,’ says Deepak, squaring his shoulders. But her father is in his sixties now and, though he cuts a tall, dignified figure in his kurti and turban, he would be no match for teenagers high on lighter fuel and racism.
‘Can you get a blanket for Mum?’ says Harbinder but, before Deepak is halfway up the stairs, the blue light of the ambulance is shining through the bubbled glass of the front door.
Harbinder briefs the paramedics in what she hopes is a professional manner. They are brisk and kind, ‘All right, love?’ and Bibi responds with brave flirtatiousness, ‘Aren’t I lucky to have such handsome rescuers.’ All the same, she cries out in pain when they lift her onto the stretcher. Harbinder sees her father clench his fists impotently.
‘You go in the ambulance with Mum, Dad,’ she says. ‘I’ll follow in my car.’
11
Edwin
Gin and Tonic
EDWIN SURPRISES HIMSELF by looking forward to the event at Chichester Waterstones. It’s because he doesn’t get out much, he tells himself. In the old days at the BBC there was always something to do in the evenings: parties, drinks in the pub after work, intimate dinners in secluded Italian restaurants. In the sixties there had been things called ‘happenings’ where a group of people would gather in a space like an old cinema or empty swimming pool, take drugs and listen to sitar music. Edwin had never been very keen on the drugs but he had enjoyed the spurious sense of togetherness, of barriers coming down. They never came down far enough for him to kiss one of his lovers in public though. But it’s different now. Edwin sometimes sees men walking along the seafront holding hands and the sight never fails to make him feel happy and also rather sad for his young self, who was never able to enjoy this simple pleasure. But he knows that homophobia still exists. He still sees and hears it everywhere, in code words like ‘flamboyant’ and ‘outrageous’, in assumptions and allusions and aspersions. There’s still a long way to go.
Edwin doubts whether LSD and sitars will be on the menu at Waterstones but he dresses with care, wearing a silk cravat instead of his normal tie. He puts on his good winter coat because the September nights have suddenly become colder. He adds a trilby and is feeling rather dashing. It’s only when he passes the door of number twenty-one that he remembers: Peggy is dead and they are trying to catch her murderer.
Natalka has offered to drive. Benedict doesn’t own a car and it’s been years since Edwin got behind the wheel. He’s not surprised when Natalka roars up in a sporty red VW Golf. She’s a hot-hatch girl, and no mistake, though he does wonder where she got the money on a carer’s salary. They pick up Benedict outside the gas station and drive off in a definitely festive atmosphere. There’s pop music on the radio and, even though Edwin doesn’t recognise the words and can’t identify a tune, he finds himself responding to the pulse of the beat. I’m going out with friends, he thinks, and the thought warms him even more than the VW’s rather off-putting heated seat.
‘Is DS Kaur coming?’ asks Benedict, leaning forward from the back seat like a child.
‘She’s going to try,’ says Natalka. ‘Her mum fell over and broke her leg on Monday night so she’s been busy trying to work and look after her.’
Edwin notes, with interest, that Natalka seems well-informed on DS Kaur’s activities, also that the scary policewoman apparently lives with, and cares for, her parents.
‘I told Harbinder to employ a carer, even for a few weeks,’ says Natalka. ‘She can’t do everything. She’s got two older brothers but they seem a bit useless.’
‘That’s always the way,’ says Benedict, even though he’d once told Edwin that his older brother and sister were ‘terrifying overachievers’.
Edwin is rather disappointed by the venue. Not that the bookshop isn’t lovely. The upstairs event space is surprisingly spacious and even boasts a beautiful chandelier. It’s just that he would have expected a bestselling author to be appearing at the Dome or the Southbank Centre. This is, after all, just a room over the bookshop. Natalka and Benedict are the youngest people there by some margin. Edwin starts to feel younger by the second and embarks on a rather interesting chat with a retired GP from Steyning.
When Dex Challoner appears it’s with little fanfare. He slides on the ‘stage’, which is, in fact, just a slightly raised platform, and pours himself a glass of water. The manager gives a brief introduction and tells them where the fire exits are and then Dex stands up and talks for forty minutes about his books. It’s a slick performance. Edwin is sure that he has given the same talk many times before but Dex manages to get in several topical jokes and a few naturalistic ums and ahs. Edwin has had plenty of experience of arts types who seem incapable of talking about their art and so is favourably impressed with the writer. There are a few clichés—‘a bad page is better than a blank page’—but the story of a lonely but bookish childhood is well told and Dex is generous about other authors and funny about his earliest efforts. ‘“The Cricket Stump Murders” will remain unpublished for ever.’ When the questions come Dex answers with humour and eloquence, not even rolling his eyes when he is asked where he gets his ideas. Edwin claps loudly
at the end.
The manager tells them to form a queue if they want to have their books signed. Edwin tags on the end holding his proof copy of High Rise Murder. Looking round the room he sees that DS Kaur has arrived and that Natalka has somehow managed to procure another glass of wine. He hopes she remembers that she’s driving.
Watching Dex work the queue, Edwin is, once more, full of admiration. Dex chats and smiles and poses for photographs (always managing to get the book in shot, Edwin notices). He catches snatches of conversation: ‘I’m so pleased’, ‘What a nice thing to say’, ‘That sounds like a great book idea but it’s for you to write not me,’ ‘I’m sorry, perhaps you’ll like this one more.’ Eventually Edwin reaches the table.
‘Great to see another man here,’ says Dex, with his professional smile. And it’s true that most of the audience are women. ‘Thanks for the solidarity.’ Then he sees the book and turns it over, puzzled.
‘A proof copy,’ he says at last.
‘It belonged to my friend, Peggy.’
‘You were a friend of Peggy’s?’ Dex looks at him properly now. He has very dark brown eyes, shiny like a bird’s.
‘Yes,’ says Edwin. ‘I’m Edwin Fitzgerald. I was her neighbour at the flats.’ He doesn’t want to risk saying Peggy’s name in case his voice wobbles.
‘I think I saw you at the funeral,’ says Dex. ‘Did Peggy give you this book?’
‘In a way,’ says Edwin. ‘Nigel, her son, told me to pick a keepsake and I chose this. I knew she was a great fan of yours.’
‘That’s nice,’ says Dex, his bright eyes never leaving Edwin’s face.
‘When I opened the book, though, this fell out.’
Edwin holds out the postcard. We are coming for you.
Dex turns it over in his hands. ‘What does it mean?’
The Postscript Murders Page 7
