by JL Merrow
“Weather’s getting colder,” I offered. My hip always gives me more gyp in winter, as he well knows. The fact it was a balmy fourteen degrees today was neither here nor there.
Phil gave me a look. “Fine. You’re fine. There’s still a sofa over there with your name on it. Come on.”
We trooped over to the sofa, Phil pointedly going first so I wouldn’t have to struggle not to limp.
Okay, so he was nearest it anyway. So what?
Phil settled into one corner of the sofa, and I settled into a corner of Phil, with his arm round my shoulders and my feet up on the coffee table. And if you think people can’t have corners, you haven’t met my beloved.
“What do you reckon all that was about?” I asked, to get the conversation off the subject of my hip soonest. “Old Arlo put the frighteners on Vi? Or do you reckon she’s covering for someone?” I thought about it. “Like, say, that secret bloke of hers?”
Phil shrugged. “Maybe. Or she just didn’t like us upsetting him when he’s already grieving.”
“Why’d she care? He’s not even her real uncle. Surprised they’re even still speaking. I mean, the way he talked about Vi didn’t sound like there was a lot of love lost between ’em.”
“Probably doesn’t say that sort of thing to her face, though.”
“True.” I thought about it. “That whole Uncle Arlo thing—think that means anything?”
He frowned, in that special way that generally means I have no idea what you’re talking about and I strongly suspect you don’t either.
“I mean, she’s nearly thirty, right? Our age. If your mum remarried, would you call the new bloke’s brother ‘Uncle’ anything?”
“No, but then I don’t talk about my parents as Mummy and Daddy either.”
“Yeah, when a woman that age talks about her daddy, it usually means something totally different. Think she’s got one of them and all?” I grinned, and then had a light bulb moment. “Oi, you don’t think it’s the bish, do you? Her secret bloke? I mean, he’s got someone secret too, hasn’t he?”
Phil just looked at me.
“What?” I asked, pulling back to gaze at him properly because the nearness was making me squint.
“He’s a bishop, not a Catholic cardinal,” he explained patiently.
“So?”
“So, he’s allowed to have a girlfriend. Why would they keep the relationship a secret?”
“Well, I could see Amelia getting a bit narked about it.”
“Not anymore, she isn’t.”
“Okay, back to the rentboy theory. Or choirboy, I s’pose.” That thought left a bitter taste in my mouth.
“Greg reckoned the bishop’s seeing someone,” Phil pointed out. “As in, spending time with them. Not just having an illicit fumble in the vestry.”
“True,” I said, relieved. “So are you gonna follow him? See what’s what?”
“Maybe.” There was that trademark Phil Morrison noncommittal tone again.
I slapped on the sarcasm with a shovel. “You know, if you think I’m talking bollocks, you could just tell me.”
He smirked. “Don’t like to keep repeating myself.”
“Git.”
“You wouldn’t have me any other way,” he said smugly, pulling me in tight again.
“Oi, I’ll have you any way you like,” I said, because, well, it’s true.
Say what you like about Amelia Fenchurch-Majors, she got a good turnout at her funeral. St. Leonards cathedral wasn’t quite bursting at the seams, but there were a sight more mourners than I’d ever seen at any send-off not involving royalty. And that was without any strong-arming people to come along, unless she’d been doing it from beyond the grave.
Course, one or two of those present might just have turned up to make sure they actually buried her.
Not that I’d have included myself in that number, obviously.
Me and Phil had had a brief discussion about whether we still ought to turn up, given our current state of persona-non-grata-dom with Vi. Phil, though, was adamant the little matter that we’d been fired from working on the case wasn’t going to stop him, and anyway, it wasn’t like we’d be intruding on Vi’s grief, seeing as she’d made it pretty plain she wasn’t feeling any. So we went.
This being the Home Counties and not a Hollywood film, most people weren’t in top-to-toe black, just wearing smart and vaguely sombre clothing, and there were definitely no posh hats with veils. I’d ended up wearing the suit I’d got for Gary’s wedding. The grey was a bit on the light side, but it was easily the smartest outfit I owned. Phil, of course, possessed more suits than you can shake a tape measure at, and was in dark navy today.
The grieving widower was in dark grey, which was just as well with Vi hanging on his arm rocking a vivid purple frock. With black tights and heels, mind, so I s’pose at least she’d tried. Uncle Armband was in a navy suit like Phil, but several waist sizes larger and with exponentially more wrinkles. On his arm was a pale lady clearly in dire need of less stress in her life or, failing that, Botox. I couldn’t put my finger on it, but for some reason, she really didn’t look like she belonged there.
“Who’s that?” I whispered to Phil.
“Mrs. Fenchurch. Elizabeth. Used to be a solicitor but gave it up due to ill health. For which read anxiety and depression.”
“Yeah? Couldn’t old Arlo give her something shiny to cheer her up?” I looked at her again and realised what had seemed odd about her. “Hang on, how come a jeweller’s wife isn’t wearing a scrap of jewellery?” She didn’t even have the tiniest of studs in her ears. “Is that a funeral thing?”
“Could be. Pearls are traditional, mind.”
I was already scanning the necks of the other ladies present. Yep, a fair assortment of pearls on display. I spotted my sister standing over by a display commemorating local soldiers who’d fallen in the Great War, their faces staring solemnly out from black-and-white photos, every upper lip as stiff as their uniformed spines. Cherry was wearing pearls, or at least what looked like pearls to my unschooled eye. For all I knew she’d got ’em out of a cracker. She caught my eye and smiled, so I waved.
And yeah, I realised that probably wasn’t appropriate even before she gave me a scandalised look and turned pointedly away, ta very much.
Other ladies were wearing thin gold chains, some with crosses on, silver pendants . . . The usual, really, although I noticed nobody had on anything you’d describe as bling apart, of course, from our old mate Toby with his cross. Even Vi had on a restrained gold necklace. I wondered if it had been her mother’s, and if so, whether it was a final, subtle fuck you to her dear departed stepmother.
The murmur of conversation all around us had a weird feel to it—too loud for a cathedral, but not loud enough for the number of people present. People were chatting, yeah, but they kept their voices low, and no one was joking or laughing. Somehow, though, you could tell it was just ’cos people knew how they ought to behave, not because they were genuinely cast down over Amelia’s death. Every now and then someone would give a quick smile at something that was said, and then straighten their face out hurriedly.
Poor lady. Not much of a legacy.
“Come on, let’s go and say hi to Cherry and Greg,” I said, because people were starting to give me funny looks after all my staring at women’s chests.
We wandered over to where they were standing, Greg in earnest conversation with a couple of little old ladies. The height difference and a slight case of dowager’s hump on the part of one of ’em meant he was bent almost double in an effort to talk face-to-face.
Cherry was wearing a black suit that looked like she’d bought it for court appearances, and the world’s clumpiest shoes. Greg, obviously, was in the usual dog-collar-and-black-suit combo he always wore for church affairs that didn’t call for the fancy embroidered frocks he generally got to put on for special occasions.
We caught the end of Greg’s conversation—something about vol-au-vent
s—and then the ladies scurried away. Greg gave us a suitably restrained and sombre smile in welcome. “Tom, Philip. So good to see you at this sad time.”
He sounded so sincere I didn’t have the heart to point out he’d seen us not two days ago, and we weren’t any sadder now than we had been then. “Uh, yeah. Good turnout, innit?”
Cherry muttered something that sounded a lot like Ghouls, to which Greg didn’t react. I was glad to see he’d already developed selective hearing.
“Indeed. Her energy and vision will be much missed.”
Yeah, right. Some of those present had probably already given thanks.
A bright flash amongst all the dark colours caught my eye, and I turned. Lance Frith, who I’d assumed didn’t own any articles of clothing that weren’t black and would therefore be spoilt for choice, was wearing head-to-toe white. Weirdo.
I leaned in to mutter to Phil, “Christ. He looks like he’s on his way to a cricket match. Or his own gay wedding.”
Phil shrugged. “White’s a mourning colour in some cultures.”
“Yeah, but not this one.” At least he’d left off the pendulum. He still stuck out like a gangrenous thumb in our conservative company. I wouldn’t have been surprised if people thought he was taking the piss, turning up dressed like a ghost in a sixties’ TV show.
Come to that, I wouldn’t have been totally gobsmacked to find he was taking the piss. I just didn’t know where I was with Lance, and I felt awkward as hell when he turned and caught my eye. He smiled and took a step in my direction like he was about to come over, but just then the organ started playing, and we all made a restrained scramble for seats. Phil and me found chairs near the back and managed not to scrape the legs too loudly on the floor tiles as we sat down. DI Sharp of the St. Leonards constabulary, who I remembered from the fayre kerfuffle, sat down at the far end of the row. Was he hoping the murderer had come along to gloat? Maybe he reckoned they’d be overcome with guilt in such Godly surroundings and blurt out a confession?
I nudged Phil. “Seen the representative of the law?” I whispered.
He nodded but didn’t say anything. I looked back at the DI, saw he was staring straight at me, and looked away again quick.
Shit. Did that make me look guilty? I glanced back deliberately, to show I had nothing to hide, but he’d turned to the front by then, the bastard.
Despite taking place in a cathedral, the funeral was pretty much like any other I could remember. Toby’s address from the pulpit painted a picture of a selfless, community-spirited woman I was pretty sure I’d never met and neither had he. The tears he had to wipe from the corners of his eyes were a nice touch, mind. Maybe he even believed what he was saying.
Or maybe we’d just cleared up the question of who Toby’s secret lover was—sorry, had been.
I felt like a total bastard for being so cynical when Alex Majors got up to say a few words about his dead wife and was too overcome with emotion to actually get them out. To my total surprise, it was Vi who came to his rescue. I mean, not that I ever doubted she cared about her dad, but I was pretty amazed by the way she did it.
She stood up next to him, linked her arm in his, and said a few short words about her stepmum with no hidden barbs whatsoever. About how Amelia had brought joy back into her daddy’s life after they’d lost her mum. Seriously, if you weren’t in the know, you’d have thought they’d got on just fine. I took my metaphorical hat off to the girl and, glancing around, wasn’t the only one. Even Uncle Arlo had an impressed look on his face.
It was him up next, and he managed a convincing portrayal of grief as he spoke about Amelia being more like a daughter to him than a sister. There was hardly a dry eye in the place, and even I was coming over a bit misty.
Then I glanced at Arlo’s missus. She was paler than ever and staring straight-ahead, her lips pressed together in a tight line. I got the impression that not only was she deliberately not looking at Uncle Artful, she wasn’t looking at anything.
What the hell was all that about?
Fortunately for the mob of mourners in general, and yours truly in particular, it turned out that a cold collation did indeed mean lunch, although it was all a bit on the dainty side. Apart from the vol-au-vents, which were massive, flaky, and stuffed to bursting with either coronation chicken or prawn cocktail. Despite the weird feeling of being in a 1970s time warp, they looked bloody delicious, but sod’s law, I didn’t dare eat one for fear of ruining my suit.
I caught a lot of interested glances from the so-called mourners, but at least no one had the bad taste—or maybe the nerve—to come over and grill me about finding the body, so at least I got to eat in peace.
Vi was still clinging to her dad’s arm as he did the rounds of Greg’s front room mechanically, thanking everyone for coming. When it came to my and Phil’s turn, I got the definite impression he hadn’t even registered who he was talking to.
After a while, Vi sat Daddy down with a plate of food I don’t reckon he even looked at, and went to do the rest of the social stuff by herself. Phil went off to get some more vol-au-vents—he had ninja eating skills, the lucky git, and hadn’t got so much as a stray flake on his lapel. I heaped a few more finger sandwiches on my plate, regretfully. Then I turned round to find myself face-to-sleepy-face with Uncle Arlo.
He raised a lethargic eyebrow. “No messages from our dear Amelia to relay?”
His voice was a lot louder than it needed to be, in my humble opinion, and several heads turned our way. “Uh . . .”
I was saved by the sound of Alex Majors dropping his plate, cutlery clattering as vol-au-vents somersaulted neatly to land facedown on the carpet. I winced. Cherry wasn’t gonna be happy, having to clean that mess up.
Then again, she hadn’t moved in yet. Greg could clean his own carpet.
“Daddy!” Vi ran over to her father, Lance Frith following her at a slightly-less-than-seemly distance, I noted with surprise. “Come on. Don’t worry about that now. You need some peace and quiet.” She led him away from the sad splat on the floor and out of the room.
I gave Uncle Arsehole a hard stare, which he returned with disinterest.
“How much longer do you want to stay?” Phil murmured in my shell-like, making me jump a bit as I hadn’t noticed his return.
I looked at him, then at my newly laden plate. His had disappeared; presumably the vol-au-vents had all flown.
Phil rolled his eyes, grabbed two finger sandwiches off my plate, and shoved them in his gob at once.
Looked like we were on our way out, then. I grabbed the last two sandwiches and ate them, during the course of which they might have just happened to form a V sign as I held them up in his face.
One of the cathedral ladies tutted loudly.
Phil stifled a snigger.
We legged it for the door.
I wasn’t best pleased when the plod collared me just before we could make it out of there, not least because quite a few heads turned at the sight, including Toby’s and Uncle Arlo’s.
“Mr. Paretski, might I have a word?” Sharp’s tone was polite but steely.
“Dunno,” I said with a laugh that might have come off just a tiny bit nervous. “Should I bring my lawyer?”
“No need for that.” He smiled. It looked like something he’d practiced in front of a mirror. “You’re not under suspicion. I just had a couple more questions I’d like to ask you.”
I glanced at Phil. He didn’t say anything. “Fine. Fire away.”
“Actually, would you mind coming to the police station tomorrow? At three o’clock?”
Well, yeah, I would mind, as it happens, but there was definitely an undercurrent of sending the boys round if I didn’t cooperate. Phil’s hand on my arm tightened, so I guessed he’d noticed that too.
“I’ll be there,” I said, resigned. I’d have to see if I could do Mr. K.’s quote tonight instead, and fit Mrs. S.’s loo in during my now-to-be-nonexistent lunch hour.
“Think I should take C
herry along anyhow?” I muttered to Phil as we scarpered.
“What do you think?” If the look he gave me hadn’t clued me in to what a bloody daft question he reckoned that was, his tone certainly would have.
So the following day, I had to drive up to St. Leonards—again—and make my way to the local nick, where I was shown into a boxy room with a window that looked out on a brick wall.
Some attempt had been made to make it look a bit less cell-like. Nothing was bolted to the floor, and there was even a plastic jug of water on the table and a stack of disposable cups. Just like this was an ordinary business meeting, rather than the sort of discussion where, say, people might expect things to get thrown at them. Cherry had bottled water in her office, which she presumably served to clients, although in her case it was in your actual glasses. I’d seen ’em.
Then again, some of her clients ended up in the nick, didn’t they? Not a totally reassuring parallel, there.
Sis, by the way, wasn’t with me. She had a paying client meeting already booked, and while she’d offered to try to rearrange it, she’d looked a bit doubtful and I hadn’t liked to insist. After all, it wasn’t like I was a suspect or anything.
I hoped.
DI Sharp shook my hand, thanked me for coming, waved me to a seat, and poured us each a plastic cup of water. He was a bloke a bit older than me, I reckoned, dressed in a grey suit that was just on the comfortable side of smart. His light-brown hair made him look a bit forgettable, but his eyes were, well, sharp.
A uniformed PC hovered on the periphery, in case I might be tempted to forget where I was.
“As I understand it,” the DI said heavily—well, semi-heavily; he still had a good few years and several stone to go before he’d be punching at Dave’s weight—“you’re psychic, right?”
He didn’t add the sarcastic finger-quotes. He didn’t have to. His expression did it for him.
“Yeah, so?” Great. Now I was sounding defensive.
“So how come you didn’t know the necklace was in the victim’s mouth?”
