‘That’s very cool though,’ says Julie. ‘Would I have seen you on TV?’
‘I’ve never been in front of the camera,’ says Edwin. ‘But I was a presenter on Radio 3 for a while.’
‘That’s my favourite radio station,’ say Julie. ‘That and The Archers on Radio 4.’
‘How did you become a writer?’ asks Edwin. It’s something that lots of people want to do, he imagines, but very few seem to manage it.
‘I used to write short stories,’ says Julie, ‘but I never got any of them published. I was living in West London, looking after my mum, working in a school I hated and feeling very depressed. Then my mum died and, somehow, the grief process gave me an idea for a book. I took a big chance, and left my job and spent six months writing it. I was lucky. I sent it to an agent and she loved it. I know that doesn’t happen to most people.’
‘And that was You Made Me Do It?’
‘Yes. It won prizes and everything. The trouble is, none of my other books have sold half so well.’
She smiles as she says this but Edwin thinks that she looks genuinely upset.
‘Does it matter?’ he says. ‘If the first one did so well?’
‘Of course it matters,’ she says. ‘One book won’t keep you all your life. Unless it’s To Kill a Mockingbird or something like that. But it’s more that . . . I don’t know . . . I want to be a proper writer. I don’t just want to be someone who got lucky once.’
‘Writing a successful book isn’t just getting lucky,’ says Edwin. ‘And you have had other books published. I gather that’s more than Lance can say.’
Julie grins. ‘What did you make of him?’
‘He seems pleasant enough. Takes himself a bit seriously.’
‘That’s because he thinks of himself as a literary author. He never said exactly how he knew Peggy either.’
‘Didn’t he?’ Edwin hadn’t noticed this.
‘And if he does publish another book,’ says Julie, ‘everyone will be all over it. Reviews in The Times. Interviews on Radio 4. Even if nobody buys it.’
Edwin thinks that Julie sounds rather bitter. Their coffees arrive and Edwin manages to change the subject to the glories of Brighton. Edwin says he still misses his house in Kemp Town and is suitably scathing about Seaview Court.
‘I love Brighton,’ says Julie. ‘The first thing I did, when I got my advance for my first book, was buy a flat there. Well, in Hove.’
‘Hove actually,’ says Edwin, which is a very Brighton joke.
‘I walk along the promenade every morning,’ says Julie, ‘from the peace statue to the pier. Just me and Arthur. My dog,’ she adds hastily, as if she doesn’t want Edgar to get the impression that there’s a man in her life.
‘I was thinking that I’d like a dog,’ says Edwin. ‘It would be a reason to go out for a walk every day.’
‘Arthur’s great,’ says Julie. ‘He’s a Jack Russell so he’s got loads of personality. He’s quite a handful, though. My previous dog, Wilbur, was a mongrel. I still miss him.’
‘I still miss my cat, Barbra,’ says Edwin. ‘It’s the space that they occupy. That region near the skirting boards. I keep expecting to see Barbra stretched out by the radiator. Not that she ever lived in Preview Court, of course. She would have hated it.’
‘I still think I see Wilbur,’ says Julie, draining the last of her wine. ‘He was a very different character from Arthur, more self-contained, more like a cat. Sometimes I think I catch a glimpse of him, just out of the corner of my eye, and then he vanishes.’
‘Maybe you do see him,’ says Edwin. He’s aware that he’s rather drunk, a large glass of red after those two gin and tonics have put him in a dreamy, slightly maudlin, mood. Pull yourself together, he tells himself. He takes a long drink of water and suggests that they ask for the bill.
Edwin insists on walking Julie home. ‘Always be a gentleman,’ his mother used to say and, even in the days when he thought that he hadn’t lived up to her idea of what a man should be, he tried to be a gentleman. Julie is staying at the Majestic, with most of the other festival-goers. As they approach the hotel, lights blazing in almost all the windows, Edwin thinks it looks like an ocean-going liner, the band playing on, the passengers heedless of the danger out there in the dark sea . . . But no, now he’s thinking of the Titanic. This is simply a conference venue, probably half-empty most of the year, coming to life for a few nights.
‘It’s very jolly,’ says Julie. ‘The writers all stay drinking in the bar until the early hours. You should come in for a nightcap.’
‘That’s kind,’ says Edwin, wishing he had a hat to doff, ‘but I’d better get back to my hotel.’ It’s pushing it to call the Travelodge a hotel, he thinks, especially when he can’t break himself of the habit of pronouncing it ‘an ’otel’.
Julie shows him the location on her phone but Edwin goes to reception and gets a real map, on paper with street names and everything. The Travelodge looks to be only a few minutes away. Edwin kisses Julie on both cheeks and they arrange to meet for coffee tomorrow, then he sets off through the dark streets.
He thought that he’d feel rather scared, walking through an unfamiliar city at night, but the alcohol gives him courage. He strides along like a man half his age, remembering wandering the Paris boulevards with François, or Edinburgh with Nicky. It’s as if their stalwart bodies are marching alongside his aging frame. He can almost hear . . . Hang on, there is someone following him. Definite footsteps, getting nearer and nearer. And is that a man’s voice calling his name?
The footsteps start running. Edwin stops. He can’t possibly outrun his pursuer so he might as well meet his mugger with dignity. Though, he can’t quite work out how a mugger would know his name.
‘Edwin?’ The figure comes alongside. Dark jacket, jeans, longish hair and, illumined by an iPhone torch, a familiar, slightly ursine, face.
‘Freddie Fanshawe.’
‘Edwin Fitzgerald. Fancy seeing you here.’
Freddie Fanshawe is a BBC arts correspondent who once worked for Edwin. He was a graduate intern then and looks barely older now, although he must be in his forties.
‘I’m on holiday,’ says Edwin. ‘I love Scotland.’
‘I’m here to cover the literary festival,’ says Freddie. ‘I wouldn’t normally bother but what with the Dex Challoner business . . .’
‘I can see that would give it a newsworthy edge,’ says Edwin. ‘Are you on your way to the Travelodge?’ He can just see the blue-lit sign at the end of the road.
Freddie pulls a face. ‘Yes. Not like the old days, is it? A week in the Balmoral, all expenses paid.’
‘No, there’s no luxury today,’ says Edwin. ‘Although the authors seem to be having a good time at the Majestic.’
‘I’ve just been there,’ says Freddie. ‘Had to leave before they drank me under the table.’
They’ve reached the Travelodge, fluorescent lighting showing an empty reception desk and a vending machine containing chocolate bars and miniature bottles of shampoo.
‘Can we meet for a coffee tomorrow?’ says Edwin. ‘I might have something for you about Dex Challoner.’
He’ll wait until he’s sober to decide exactly how much to tell Freddie but it occurs to him that an information exchange might be mutually beneficial. Freddie looks gratifyingly curious as he heads towards the lift. Edwin presses the bell for attention. He needs to collect his bag and have a long lie-down with a flannel over his eyes.
As he waits at the desk, the doors swoosh open behind him and a man enters. He must already have his room key because he walks straight past Edwin to summon the lift.
Edwin doesn’t know what surprises him most: the fact that Nigel Smith is in Aberdeen, or the fact that he’s staying at a Travelodge.
22
Harbinder
Not a Good Son
HARBINDER MAKES AN appointment to see Joan Tate at the grandly named Highcliffe House. ‘She won’t know who you are,’ says the cheerf
ul voice on the phone, ‘but she does love having visitors.’ On the way to collect Neil, Harbinder calls in at the address given for Cathy Johnson, Dex’s assistant. They have already spoken over the phone but Harbinder wants to meet the woman for herself. Surely no one could be as sunny as Cathy sounds. Dex was ‘lovely’, Mia was ‘lovely’, Dex’s books were ‘ever so lovely’. Maybe the sweet-toned voice is hiding a red-eyed monster with dripping fangs.
But it seems that the voice hadn’t lied. Cathy is a kind-faced woman in her early fifties. Her house, a bungalow on the strip of land between Ropetackle Bridge and the sea, is neat and orderly. The sitting room has pink walls and a flowery purple sofa. There are no books to be seen anywhere.
‘I answered an advertisement in the local paper,’ says Cathy. ‘I’d never had anything to do with authors and publishing before.’
‘What were your main duties as Dex’s assistant?’
‘Mainly answering letters. He got so much fan mail. But also booking hotels and travel. Sending out books as prizes in competitions. That sort of thing.’
‘Did you run his Twitter account?’
‘No, he liked to do that himself. Said it was the personal touch. I was relieved. I don’t know much about social media.’
Looking round the room, Harbinder can’t see any evidence of teenagers who might be able to provide social media tips. It’s very much the house of a single person.
‘Did Dex ever receive any unpleasant letters or postcards?’ says Harbinder. ‘Anything threatening?’
‘Oh no.’ Cathy looks shocked. ‘All the letters were lovely. Everyone loved Dex.’
‘So he never received a postcard saying “We are coming for you”?’
‘No. That would have made me feel quite nervous.’
Although J. D. Monroe had practically ignored it, thinks Harbinder. She asks Cathy what Dex was like to work with.
‘He was lovely.’ Cathy’s eyes fill with tears. It’s a predictable answer but quite moving, nonetheless.
Outside, she looks at the street name and realises that she is a few doors from the headquarters of Care4You. Does Patricia Creeve run the company from a private house? If so, maybe Harbinder should drop in and ask a few questions about Natalka. There just seem to have been too many mentions of Russia and Ukraine in the last twenty-four hours. Does Harbinder believe Natalka’s story about the cryptocurrency and the theft, not to mention the mysterious men who are supposedly following her? And now Natalka has hared off to Aberdeen on the slimmest of pretexts. Maybe Natalka’s employer will have some insights. Surely Patricia runs checks on anyone who works for her as a carer?
Patricia Creeve seems surprised to see her but is welcoming enough. She shows Harbinder into a room that was once a small bedroom and is now full of filing cabinets and flowcharts. There’s still a single bed, though, and Harbinder sits on the edge of it. She has to move several large stuffed toys first.
‘I won them on Brighton Pier,’ says Patricia. ‘I proved surprisingly good at Buffalo Bill’s Rifle Range.’
Did she go on the pier by herself? wonders Harbinder. Like Cathy’s place down the road, the house bears all the signs of single occupancy.
‘Have you always worked from home?’ she asks.
‘I used to rent an office,’ says Patricia, taking the desk chair and sitting up very straight, ‘but the overheads got too much. Commercial rents have gone sky high in Shoreham. It’s because everyone comes here from Brighton.’
This, Harbinder knows, is the perpetual refrain on the lips of every Shoreham resident. They all resent their glamorous, raffish neighbour.
‘Are you very busy?’ asks Harbinder.
‘Frantic,’ says Patricia. ‘Carers come and go all the time and I get referrals from the hospital every day. They can’t let elderly people go home without a care plan and, of course, they’re desperate to clear the beds.’ She shows her mobile phone where a steady stream of messages from ‘NHS’ scrolls past. ‘I’ve had to see two clients myself this morning because Natalka suddenly took off like that.’
‘I wanted to talk to you about Natalka,’ says Harbinder. ‘How long has she been working for you?’
‘Two years,’ says Patricia. ‘She’s very reliable normally. One of my best workers. That’s why this is such a shock.’
‘How did she come to work for you?’ asks Harbinder. ‘Did she have any previous experience?’
‘No,’ says Patricia. ‘No experience necessary. A car and a clean driving licence is all you need.’
‘I thought you’d need a health qualification of some kind.’
‘I like my workers to have an NVQ in Health and Social care,’ says Patricia, ‘but it’s not essential. I’ve got some nursing experience and so has Maria but most of the girls are just looking for a job to fit in around their families.’
‘What about Natalka?’ she says.
‘Natalka’s a clever girl,’ says Patricia. ‘She’s got a degree. I think she does this because it leaves her free for other things.’ Her face is bland but Harbinder gets the impression that Patricia has more to say. She’d like to tell Patricia not to call women girls but maybe that would sound too aggressive. She would say it if Neil were here, just to annoy him.
‘What other things?’ she asks.
‘Well, she seems to have quite a lot of money,’ says Patricia. Her professional stance relaxes somewhat and she leans back in the chair. ‘Nice car, expensive clothes. She didn’t earn that here, believe me.’ She laughs, rather bitterly. ‘I thought at first that she had a rich boyfriend but that’s another thing: she’s a really pretty girl but there’s never a mention of a man. I did wonder if she was . . . you know . . . gay.’ She lowers her voice although there’s no one listening, unless you count the stuffed toys.
‘It’s hard to tell who’s gay and who’s not these days,’ says Harbinder. ‘What do you know about Natalka’s background?’
For the first time Patricia looks slightly alarmed. ‘Why do you want to know? Are you investigating her or something?’
‘No,’ says Harbinder, trying to sound soothing. ‘It’s just something that’s come up in connection with Dex Challoner.’
‘Dex Challoner? It was so awful him dying like that. We looked after his mother, Weronika. She was a character, I can tell you.’
‘I’ve heard,’ says Harbinder. ‘Natalka is Ukrainian, isn’t she?’
‘I think so,’ says Patricia.
‘Do you know if Natalka is in contact with anyone from Ukraine?’ asks Harbinder.
‘I think she hears from her mum. She showed me a picture of her once. She looked just like anyone.’
Imagine that, thinks Harbinder. ‘Weronika was Polish, wasn’t she?’ she says. ‘Did she ever talk to you about what she did in the war?’
‘No. She might have spoken to Maria though. They were quite close; Maria’s Polish too, and I think they enjoyed being able to speak to one another in their own language.’
‘At Peggy’s funeral Maria said that Peggy knew a lot about Poland. Did she ever talk to you about Poland? Or Russia?’
‘Not really. I only visited Peggy a few times. Natalka and Maria were her regulars. We do try to stick to regulars because the clients prefer it.’
‘Does Natalka ever go back to Ukraine?’
‘Not that I know of. She said once that she was saving for her mother to come here.’
‘Does she have any other family?’
‘She mentioned a brother once but I think he might be dead.’
‘Do you know his name?’
‘Mm, I think it’s something like Dimitri. Something foreign.’
That narrows it down, thinks Harbinder. She remembers a primary school teacher who tried to call her Sarah because she couldn’t pronounce ‘Harbinder’. Her father had visited the school to explain that, unlike Sarah, Harbinder was perfectly phonetically regular.
Patricia’s phone starts buzzing angrily and Harbinder thinks it’s time to leave. She hasn’t got mu
ch from the interview apart from the fact that Natalka has a mother and maybe a brother, and the reassuring thought that, if policing goes wrong, she can always apply for a job as a carer.
* * *
EVEN IF HARBINDER does have to become a carer, one thing is for sure: she’s never going to work at Highcliffe House. It’s not that bad from the outside, not the Gothic castle its name suggests but a pleasant detached house set back from the road. Inside, though, it’s a nightmare of silent figures in wipe-clean armchairs, blaring TVs and low-level muttering, permeated with the scent of urine and cabbage.
‘If I ever end up in a place like this,’ mutters Neil, as they follow the care assistant to Joan Tate’s room, ‘shoot me first.’
‘I’m not your next of kin,’ says Harbinder. ‘I’ll leave that to Kelly.’
‘She’d do it too,’ says Neil. ‘Of course, you do things better in your culture.’
‘My culture? You mean people from Shoreham?’
‘You know what I mean. You look after your old people.’
He’s got a point, though Harbinder would never tell him so. Her maternal grandmother lived with them until she died, a revered figure, waited on hand and foot, even when she couldn’t quite remember who they all were. Harbinder, who was eight when Nani died, remembers talking to her about horses (a brief infatuation), secure in the knowledge both that her grandma adored her and that she couldn’t understand a word.
The staff at Highcliffe House don’t seem cruel, just overworked and harassed. The carer greets Joan affectionately and rearranges the orange cardigan around her shoulders.
‘It’s not hers,’ he says. ‘Clothes get mixed up.’
Harbinder looks around the room, wondering if the possessions displayed on the small table belonged to Joan or not. There’s a wedding photograph, a china horse and a vase of plastic flowers. Joan herself, a small woman with a birdlike face, says, ‘Are you the doctor?’
The Postscript Murders Page 17
