A Confusion of Murders: There's murder on his mind...

by Marina Johnson

‘Don’t you feel a bit mean?’ I say to Linda. ‘Do you think we should have stayed and stuck up for him? I don’t think it was even his dog that did it.’

  ‘Absolutely not – wish I’d known that it was that easy to shut him up. I might try shouting at him next time.’

  ‘That woman was a bit frightening though – wouldn’t want to meet her down a dark alley.’

  ‘Nor me. Which reminds me - do you fancy coming to mine tonight for a barbeque? I’ve got an old friend coming round for the evening. Haven’t seen her for years and to be honest she sort of invited herself. Please say you’ll come.’ She looks at me pleadingly when I hesitate. ‘Bloody Facebook. I wish I’d just ignored her friend request. There’s a good reason I haven’t seen her for years, we weren’t exactly the best of friends.’

  ‘Oh, alright then. She can’t be that bad.’

  ‘Trust me, she can. Bring Sprocket as well. She hates animals so we can get Henry and Sprocket to climb all over her and make her leave early.’

  ‘Why didn’t you just keep making excuses and she’d get the hint eventually.’

  ‘She won’t. If you think The Truth’s bad just wait until you meet Glenda.’

  I laugh. ‘I don’t believe you.’

  ‘You’ll see. At least the Truth’s pleasant, more than I can say for Glenda.’

  ‘I’ll be changing my mind in a minute if she’s that bad.’

  ‘You wouldn’t. Would you?’ Linda looks over her shoulder, ‘He’s finished and on our tail.’

  I glance back to see The Truth heading towards us with a plastic bag in his hand, Lulu trotting behind.

  We break into a run.

  I arrive at Linda’s back gate at six-thirty with Sprocket and a bottle of wine. I love Linda’s garden, it’s small but packed with lots of pots with plants that always seem to be in flower and when the weather’s nice you can pretend you’re in Spain. Fairy lights and bunting trail along the fence and all of the pots are painted pastel blues and pinks. You can almost forget you’re in the back yard of an old two up two down terrace.

  I open the gate, Linda is barbequing and calls out hello. I’m surprised to see Glenda is already here. I thought I’d get here extra early but she’s beaten me to it. She’s making no secret of looking me up and down and I don’t think she likes what she sees.

  ‘Hello. So, you’re Louise.’

  ‘I am,’ I say with a smile. ‘You must be Glenda. Nice to meet you.’

  She sort of sniffs at me so I plonk the wine down on the table and settle down in the chair opposite her, trying to affect an open and friendly expression. She frowns at me so maybe I look more half-wit than amicable. I help myself to a handful of crisps from the table while sending Linda a telepathic message to turn around from the barbeque.

  I can tell by the set of Linda’s shoulders that she’s had enough of Glenda already.

  Sprocket bustles over to greet Glenda, tail swishing furiously. Glenda looks down at him with distaste. Sprocket sits next to her gazing at her with love me eyes. I know he won’t leave her alone until she makes a fuss of him; he thinks everyone has to love him.

  ‘Are these snacks gluten free, Linda?’ Glenda asks, looking at the bowls of crisps on the table.

  Linda turns around, spatula in hand.

  ‘No, ‘fraid not, Glenda. I’ve got some peanuts though; would they be any good?’

  Glenda pulls a face.

  ‘No, I can’t eat peanuts. They upset my stomach. IBS.’ Glenda pats her stomach.

  ‘Have a glass of wine,’ I say. I open the bottle and gather three glasses from the table.

  ‘No thanks. I don’t drink, do I?’

  ‘Oh, sorry.’ I don’t know why I’m apologising. How should I know whether she drinks or not. I’d definitely be deleting her from Facebook if I was Linda.

  We sit in uncomfortable silence with the sizzle of the barbeque the only sound. For the life of me I can’t think of anything to say and am just about to resort to talking about the weather when Linda turns around.

  ‘I’ve done hot dogs, burgers and chicken fillets and there’s salad and baps on the table. Bring your plates over and tell me what you want.’

  ‘I’ll just have a bap and a little salad, Linda. I find my diet is so restrictive what with being gluten free, my IBS and my allergies. There’s barely anything I can eat. I exist on practically nothing,’ Glenda says piously.

  I study Glenda while she’s not looking. She’s very pretty in a glossy, manicured way which is only spoilt by her petulant mouth. A few more years and that mouth will set in a firm line. I feel ridiculously pleased with myself for painting my toenails and putting on a bit of makeup. Imagine Glenda’s horror if she’s seen the state of my hooves earlier.

  The food smells delicious so I have one of everything. Sprocket has given up on Glenda and is sitting with Henry under the table. They’re both drooling and waiting for some barbeque food to come their way. Linda sits herself between me and Glenda and I hope I can eat my food, guzzle some wine and slope off home early.

  ‘Your brother’s called Nick, isn’t he?’

  I almost jump out of my skin, I wasn’t expecting Glenda to bother talking to me. She has a dry bap, a lettuce leaf and half a tomato on her plate. I didn’t think bread was gluten free, but what do I know?

  ‘He is, do you know him?’

  ‘Yes, Linda and I were at school with him weren’t we Linda?’

  Linda nods. Well, I never knew that. Nick is a couple of years younger than me so they’d be the same age, but Linda has never mentioned that she knew Nick at school or that she even went to the same school as him, or me. I don’t remember Linda from school but being two years older than her she wouldn’t have been on my radar – and it was a massive comprehensive school anyway.

  ‘You don’t look a bit like him,’ Glenda says accusingly, as if it’s my fault. ‘He was really good looking, wasn’t he?’

  Well, thanks for that, Glenda.

  ‘He was quite the heart throb at school wasn’t he, Linda?’ she goes on. ‘I remember all the girls used to write his name on their daps, hilarious! I expect he’s old, fat and balding now, isn’t he?’ she says hopefully, nibbling on a lettuce leaf.

  ‘No, he’s a model actually.’ I sound prissy and annoyed even to my own ears. ‘You never mentioned that you knew him, Linda.’

  ‘Well he wouldn’t remember her, would he?’ cuts in Glenda. ‘She was the class mouse – I doubt anyone remembers Linda.’

  ‘Wow, Linda you said that without even opening your mouth.’ I say sarcastically. Linda’s face has gone slightly red.

  ‘Well there’s no need to be rude. I just tell it like it is. Your brother was one of the good looking popular ones and Linda was one of the unfortunates. You know, every class had a pretty one, a fat one, a swotty one and a mouse. Linda was the mouse.’ She smiles at Linda. ‘But you’re not a mouse now are you Linda? You’re completely different now. I think that’s what your weird dress sense is all about – you’re determined not to be ignored. Although you can wear what you like, working from home. Doesn’t really matter if no one sees you. What was it you said you do? Book editing?’

  ‘Yes.’ Linda says, tight lipped.

  I’m trying to understand why Linda never told me she knew my brother, I’ve talked about him often enough. Whichever way I look at it it’s strange that she never told me. I won’t ask her in front of Glenda though, that’s a conversation for another day. Odd though, and she blanked him the other day too.

  ‘Your brother probably remembers me – I actually went out with him for a few weeks in year nine.’

  ‘Oh, I’ll be sure to remember you to him,’ I say to Glenda. ‘I’ll bet you haven’t changed at all.’ She preens when I say this but it’s not a compliment. Nick probably went out with every pretty girl in the school, he even went out with my some of my friends and they were two years older than him. I doubt he’ll remember Glenda, she was one of many.

  ‘So, Linda, how long
has next door been for sale? Only I’m thinking of doing a buy to let and one of these little houses would probably do. I couldn’t live in one but I’m sure they’d be easy to rent out to the lower end of the market.’

  Well, she insults both of us in one go. No wonder Linda can’t stand her. I can’t stand her.

  ‘It’s only been for sale about a month. Loads of interest though so you’d better get in quick.’

  ‘Mmm. Maybe I’ll give the estate agent a ring tomorrow. Be good to put my money somewhere. I mean, there’s just nowhere to invest these days that pays a decent return, is there?’

  Linda and I murmur agreement. Like we’d know. I’m determined not to ask her where she lives or what she does.

  I don’t need to.

  ‘The salon in Hope Street has really taken off. It’s doing nearly as well as the one in the precinct. Have you ever been in there, Louise?’

  Ah, that explains the perfect hair, make-up and line free face. She’s that Glenda, as in ‘Glenda’s Beauty’ salons. No, I’ve never been in either of them. Even if I wanted to, I probably couldn’t afford to.

  ‘No, I haven’t.’

  ‘Thought not. Well, if you ever feel the urge let me know and I’ll give you some discount vouchers.’

  I resist the urge to tell her where she can stuff her vouchers as she prattles on giving unwanted beauty advice to Linda. I zone out. I’m wondering how soon I can make my escape and get away from this hideous woman. Linda was right, The Truth would be better company than her, as least he’s not nasty.

  I pour myself and Linda another glass of wine.

  It’s going to be a long night.

  Dad and I are at the Swan tucking into a huge roast chicken dinner.

  ‘Your mother and I used to come here when you and Nick were little.’ Dad spears a carrot with his fork. ‘Of course it was just a pub then, the only food you could get was a packet of cheese and onion and a pickled egg.’

  Happy days. Nick and I would sit in the ancient Morris Marina with a packet of crisps and a bottle of pop while Mum and Dad had a drink in the pub. It was a big treat for us, although Social Services would probably be called in nowadays. Not that our parents did so bad; I grew up believing that only pubs served pop in small bottles – I had a real shock when I discovered you could buy them in shops.

  I feel hugely relieved that Dad seems back to normal, he’s perky and chatty, says he’s even considering going to his gardening club this week. Brendan-the-neighbour hasn’t been mentioned at all and I think maybe Jean is right and I’m fussing too much.

  ‘Jean tells me you’ve been doing a bit of sorting out.’

  ‘I have. That glory hole under the stairs was full of rubbish that’d been there for years and it needed doing. Jean offered to do it but I told her – I’m not that old and decrepit that I can’t do a bit of spring cleaning. You have a look when we get back, you won’t believe the difference.’

  Dad insists on paying for lunch and I wrap up my left-over beef in a paper napkin to take home for Sprocket. The waitress is the same one who served Nick and I on Thursday night but she doesn’t seem to remember me.

  I’m not memorable like my brother. Or male.

  ‘Wow, Dad that looks so much better – so nice and tidy.’ We’re back at Dad’s for a post lunch cup of tea and he’s proudly showing off his handiwork in the cupboard. It does look really neat and tidy and surprisingly large. Harry Potter could definitely live in this understairs cupboard. The wallpaper of faded pink roses on a trellis brings back memories of my childhood, of waiting in the hall while mum wrestled Nick into his coat for school. The wrought iron coat hooks with coloured balls on the ends are long gone now as is the red stair carpet held down with brass stair rods that mum polished every week. I can remember the smell of that furniture polish even now. Strange how a piece of old wallpaper can trigger such vivid memories.

  ‘See this,’ says Dad, getting inside the cupboard and running his hand over the back wall. ‘Have a look at this.’

  I squeeze in next to him and look at his hand.

  ‘What am I looking at Dad?’ I can’t see anything apart from a bit of ripped wallpaper.

  ‘Here. Look. Behind this.’ He carefully pulls the ripped piece of wallpaper down and points at the thumbnail sized piece of wall behind it.

  I peer closer. ‘What Dad? I can’t see anything.’

  ‘There. Look carefully.’

  ‘Can’t see a thing, Dad.’

  He sighs, annoyed.

  ‘THERE. LOOK. Behind the paper. The secret message.’

  Secret message? I don’t like the way this is going. I humour him.

  ‘Secret message? Who’s it from?’

  Dad looks at me as if I’m stupid and he can’t believe what I’m asking.

  He sighs. ‘Well, MI5 of course.’

  Chapter 4

  ‘MI5? What messages are they leaving Dad? What do they say?’

  ‘Look, there’s another one there, and there.’ He pulls more pieces of wallpaper down to show me the messages. There’s nothing there except wall and when I ask him to tell me what they say he ignores the question.

  ‘Look. Can’t you see them?’ He points to the wall and looks at me. Do I lie and humour him or say there’s nothing there?

  ‘I can’t really see Dad, it’s quite dark in here.’

  This seems to satisfy him and he carefully smooths the wallpaper back against the wall.

  ‘You mustn’t tell anyone that I’ve shown them to you, I could get in trouble.’ He chews on a gnarled finger. ‘I’m an old fool I shouldn’t have shown you. They won’t be happy with me. Oh dear, oh dear me.’ We come out of the cupboard and he starts pacing up and down the hallway.

  ‘Shouldn’t have done that,’ he shakes his head as he paces up and down, ‘I really shouldn’t have done that.’

  ‘No harm done, Dad. I couldn’t read them anyway.’

  ‘Shouldn’t have told you. About MI5. It’s secret, a secret mission.’ He’s walking faster and faster, talking faster and faster, repeating himself.

  ‘I won’t tell them, Dad, it’ll be our secret.’

  ‘They’ll know. They’ll KNOW.’ He stops and almost shouts at me.

  ‘Let’s have that cup of tea, Dad,’ I say in an effort to distract him. ‘I don’t know about you but I’m gasping.’ I put my arms around him and hug him. To my surprise he doesn’t push me away but lets me guide him out to the kitchen. He sits down on a stool at the breakfast bar. I fill the kettle with water and, as I plug it in to boil, I turn around and notice that the counter top is covered in keys. Large keys, small keys, tiny suitcase type keys, old rusty keys. All carefully laid out in neat rows. Where have they all come from? Dad has his head bent and is picking each one up and studying it carefully before putting it back down and picking up another. Hopefully he’s forgotten about MI5.

  ‘What are all the keys for Dad?’

  ‘Looking for the key to the shed. I’ve searched everywhere in this house, cupboards, drawers, everywhere, and apart from the front and back door keys this is all of them. And I can tell you that none of them fit the shed. Someone has put a padlock on it and it wasn’t me.’ Dad crosses his arms defensively, ‘SOMEONE is playing silly buggers in my garden.’

  There’s a challenge in the way he says it, as if he knows I’m not going to believe him.

  ‘Well Dad, why don’t we drink our tea and then go and have a look?’

  ‘All right. I suppose so.’

  As I get the milk out of the fridge and make the tea I can feel Dad’s eyes on me but he doesn’t speak. I pour the tea out and we sit and drink in silence. I can’t quite believe how Dad can have changed so quickly; when we were eating our lunch he was completely normal, then suddenly he was talking about MI5.My mind is racing. Obviously, MI5 are not leaving messages in the cupboard under the stairs.

  How can he be so normal one minute and then be seeing things that aren’t there and imagining things the next? There’s defini
tely something not right with him but what do I do? I need to take him to the doctors to get some advice but first I have to persuade him to go and I’m not sure how I’m going to do that. I pour another cup and we slurp our tea in an uncomfortable silence.

  ‘Right,’ says Dad, downing his mug, ‘follow me.’

  I’ve barely drunk any of my tea but I don’t argue. God knows how he drinks it so hot. Dad unlocks the back door and goes out and I follow him down the garden, past the pink roses that are his pride and joy. I can smell them as we walk past and I’m transported back in time; Nick and I used to make rose petal perfume from the fallen petals and present the disgusting brown liquid to Mum in a milk bottle. She always pretended to be delighted and promised to wear it every day. I smile at the memory; Nick had thought making perfume was only for girls. In my bossy eight-year-old way I told him that chemists made perfume and they were always men; it was easy to persuade a six-year-old.

  As we get further down the garden the neat borders give way to weeds and brambles, long and leggy grass that’s gone to seed, trees that have grown unchecked. I turn and look back towards the house; it’s completely hidden and it doesn’t feel as though we’re in a suburban garden anymore; we could be in the countryside. We reach the shed, the slats grey and dried out, desperate for a coat of creosote. It’s solid though, Dad made this shed himself and it was built to last. Eight foot by six with a pitched roof and a window running the whole length of one side.

  ‘See. Look. New padlock and it’s not mine.’ He frowns, pointing at the padlock. He gives a good tug on it to make sure it’s locked. It does look like a new padlock, a hefty one at that. But did Dad buy it and put it there himself and now he’s forgotten? He could have, he forgot he rang me in a panic on Thursday so it’s quite possible. And now I think of it how could Dad possibly see his neighbour down here? If we can’t see the house from here then he couldn’t possibly see the shed from the house.

  ‘And that. I never put that there either.’ He points at the window which is covered on the inside with what looks like sacking, blocking the view of anything inside. I press my nose up against the window and try to see inside but can’t see a thing.