by JL Merrow
“It’s up on the mantelpiece. The one in the middle, tucked behind the clock.”
We looked. There were half a dozen or so Get Well cards up there, mostly floral but with a couple of jokey-looking cartoon hospital scenes. Phil strode over, grabbed the one in the middle and opened it up. He grunted and held it up for the rest of us to see.
It was written in block capitals with a thick black pen, and all it said was GET WELL SOON FROM THE LITERATI.
“That’s not a lot of help.” I glanced at Cherry. “Unless you recognize the writing?”
She shrugged. “I’m not sure I’ve ever seen their handwriting. Everyone uses a word processor.”
I turned back to Phil. “What about the card?”
“Just your bog-standard card from M&S.” Phil shoved it back behind the clock, leaving them both a bit wonky.
I slumped back in the sofa and blew out a frustrated puff of air. “So how are we going to get this stuff checked out?”
“Well, there’s private labs. Easiest would be to have a word with your mate DI Southgate.”
I nodded. “Fair enough.”
“Wait a minute,” Cherry burst out. “Why on earth would the Literati want to, well, hurt me?” She looked upset, which I guessed wasn’t all that surprising. I’d be pretty miffed if a bunch of people clubbed together to try and off me, although I suppose the chances were it was just one person acting alone and trying to spread the guilt. A murder shared is a murder halved, that sort of thing.
“We were coming to that.” Phil was into business mode, all stern and efficient. “What do you know about David Evans?”
“The old chairman? In what sense?”
“Specifically, the way he died.”
“Well, he was ill, poor man, wasn’t he? Heart disease, and then…” Her face paled. “You don’t think he was poisoned, do you?”
“Didn’t get any gift baskets the week before he died, did he?”
“No—I mean, I can’t believe it. He was such a lovely old man. He was writing a murder mystery, you know? It was really very good. Terrific plot, terribly ingenious. He asked me about a few things—court procedure, that kind of stuff. He made me promise not to tell the other members of the group—you know what Morgan’s like about genre fiction. Plus, there had just been all this hoo-ha about plagiarism within writing groups, and David said while of course he trusted all the Literati, he didn’t want to risk being disillusioned at his age. He was rather sweet about it.”
She hugged herself, which was so un-Cherry-like I felt awkward watching her. Sort of like I was failing in my brotherly duties by not going over and giving her a hug myself, but God, this was Cherry. She’d probably be horrified. It’d been different, somehow, when she’d been in hospital.
“You know,” she continued, staring at the unlit fire, “the circle was so much more fun with him as chairman. Morgan and I never did really get on. Meetings got a lot, well, stuffier after he took over.”
“How did they decide who got to be the new chairman?” I threw in. “Draw straws, hold a vote, or was it just no one else wanted to do it?”
Cherry frowned. “You know, I really don’t know. I think, actually, he just stepped in, and of course, nobody protested. I mean, we could hardly have made a big fuss about leadership when poor David had just died. We were all really upset, and it just wouldn’t have been, well, the thing.” Her eyes widened. “Oh God. I’ve just realized—I haven’t even offered you a cup of tea. You’d like one, wouldn’t you? Milk? Sugar?” She jumped up and scurried into the kitchen without even waiting for an answer.
I exchanged glances with Phil and followed her in there. She’d taken the kettle over to the sink to fill it. “I’ll do that,” I started.
Cherry jumped a mile, turned the tap on too full, and water spurted everywhere. “Oh… Bugger.”
I reached past her to turn the tap off, and Cherry just stood, staring at the puddle on the floor. “Sorry. Didn’t mean to make you jump.” I patted her awkwardly on the nearest woolly shoulder. The whole front of her sweater (Greg’s sweater?) was wet, so I handed her a tea towel. “Should have left that to me. You know water’s my area.”
Cherry managed a wobbly smile as she mopped herself up, but it didn’t last. “It’s all just so…so bloody horrible. To think someone hates me so much. And I don’t even know who it is. Or why.” She sniffled. “I’m going to be expecting bricks through the window. And razor blades in the post.”
“Nah, you’ll be all right. You’re coming back to mine.” I hadn’t really thought about it, but well, it made sense, didn’t it? “That way, you won’t be on your own at night. And my neighbours are a lot closer.” And nosier, probably, come to that. “Go on, go and pack a bag.”
“You don’t have to… I mean, Gregory’s got plenty of spare rooms in the Old Deanery.”
I gave her a look. “What, and you and him only engaged? Are you trying to cause a scandal in the church? Those old ladies who do the flowers would probably keel over in horror.”
She huffed. “Fine. I’ll get my things. Can you sort the floor out? There’s a mop behind the door.”
“Oi, what did your last slave die of?” I went and grabbed the mop anyway. I was just about to start when I noticed she hadn’t gone yet. “Cherry?”
She took a deep breath. “It wasn’t Gregory, you know. He’d never hurt anyone.”
“Hey, did I say it was him?” I said it gently, and she smiled that brittle smile again and left.
I had the floor sorted in a jiffy. When I got back in the living room, Phil was busy wearing a track in the carpet. “Tea’s off,” I told him. “Cherry’s packing a bag, and she’s coming back to mine.”
He nodded. “Good.”
There was a short silence.
“Oh—before I forget…” I held out my spare house key.
Phil looked at it.
“It’s a key. To my place. We talked about this, remember?”
“Yeah, but…”
“But what? You don’t want it? Fine.” I shoved the bloody thing back in my pocket so hard I felt the stitches in the lining go.
Phil slipped his arms around my waist. “Wanker. I just meant I wasn’t going to hold you to anything you said yesterday, that’s all. What with the head and all.”
Oh. “Yeah, well. I told you I hadn’t got a concussion, didn’t I? So do you want it or not?”
“Oh, I want it all right.” He pulled me closer, then stepped back with a sigh. “But what about your sister?”
Oh. Shit. Cherry was going to need a key, wasn’t she? “I’ll get another one cut, all right?”
Phil smirked. “What makes you think it was the key I wanted?”
“Prick. Right. I’ll give Dave a ring while we’re waiting. Unless you’ve changed your mind about it?”
“What, about having you in your sister’s living room?”
I held up the appropriate finger and, with my other hand, got out my phone and made the call.
“Southgate.” Dave’s voice sounded a bit rough.
“All right?”
“Peachy. If you’re ringing about another trip to the pub, you’re going to be on your own. I caught a right earful from Jen when I got home the other night.”
I managed not to snigger down the phone. “Drunk too much to rise to the occasion, had you?”
“And then some. I’m not as young as I used to be, you know.”
“If you ever were. Nah, it’s just, Cherry’s got this gift basket from the Literati. Least, that was what was on the card. They left it on the doorstep, though, so…”
“Has she eaten anything from it?” Dave’s tone turned businesslike.
“Not that kind of gifts. Bath stuff, body lotion, that kind of thing. And nicotine’s—”
“—easily absorbed through the skin, yes, thank you, we’re not total morons here. Has she used any of it?”
“No.”
“Good. Make sure it stays that way, and tell your sister I’ll send
someone round for it in the next hour or so. And for God’s sake, don’t go leaving your grubby fingerprints all over the evidence this time, all right?”
“I haven’t even touched it.”
“Surprised you haven’t sampled half the bloody products.”
“Yeah, right.” We hung up, and I turned to Phil, who’d been doing that looking-at-bookshelves thing you do when someone’s on the phone and you want to pretend you can’t hear their conversation. “Dave’s sending one of his minions to pick up that basket.”
“Good. So what are we going to do with your sister while we talk to Nair?”
“Who?”
“Your literati chum. Only not so much. Raz Nair.”
“Oh, him. He’s on the way back to mine, is he?”
Phil nodded. “He lives the other end of the village.”
Raz lived in Pluck’s End too? “S’pose that’s a point in his favour. I mean, what’s the point of going all the way to St Leonard’s to try and murder someone when you can do it in the village and support the local economy? So to speak.”
“Maybe that is the point—if she’d been poisoned in Pluck’s End, he’d be the obvious suspect, wouldn’t he?”
“You mean, apart from Greg?”
“Obviously. Anyway, we can’t drag your sister along when we go and see him.”
“Point.” I looked at my watch. “He ought to be back home from work by now. I’ll tell Cherry we’ll pick her up after we’ve seen him. It’ll give her more time to pack stuff, anyway. Actually, come to think of it, someone needs to stay here for a bit anyhow, for when the boys in blue get here.”
I went upstairs to update Cherry on the change of plans and caught her just as she was taking Tacky Teddy off her pillow and putting him in her bag. She went pink, so I cleared my throat and pretended I hadn’t noticed.
“Phil and me are going to head off for a bit, give you some space, and we’ll see you in an hour or so, all right? Make sure you’ve got everything you need, and don’t open the door to anyone. Unless it’s the police, obviously. They’re coming round to pick up that gift basket.”
She nodded. “You really think they’ll find something?”
“Dunno,” I said as lightly as I could. “Better safe than sorry, though, innit? And like you said, it’s not like you could use the stuff. I’ll see you in a bit, okay?”
I ran back downstairs again, and Phil and I grabbed our coats and headed off for Raz’s place.
We walked, seeing as it wasn’t far according to the map Phil pulled up on his phone. There were a few people out and about, most of them walking dogs, their breath fogging in the light from the streetlamps. The people, that was. Actually, no, when I looked properly, it was the dogs as well. I huddled into my jacket and wished I’d brought a scarf.
“Think you’ll ever get a dog?” I asked idly as a couple of Westies snuffled past in a cloud of white fluff, stubby little tails wagging.
“What, some kind of bloodhound or something?” Phil smirked. “Got you for that, haven’t I?”
“Any more of that and I’ll pee on your leg.”
“Marking your territory?”
I gave him my best suggestive leer. “If I was doing that, it wouldn’t be your leg I’d be marking.”
Chapter Twenty
The High Street was long, narrow and winding, built in the days when you were lucky to see two wheeled vehicles all day, let alone have them needing to pass each other in the street. I cast wistful glances at the pubs we passed, although, to be honest, it was a bit early for a pint anyway. Maybe I could drag Phil down the Rats when we got back to St Albans…
Right. Because Cherry would be so chuffed to either join us or be left on her tod. I could see this was going to take a bit of adjusting to.
Raz didn’t have a house—just a flat above the village hair salon, tucked down the far end of the High Street. Still, he was young, yet. Probably. I wasn’t quite sure how old he was, actually, but I was guessing early to midtwenties. He opened the door in a shirt and tie, and I guessed he’d only just got back in from work and hadn’t had time to relax yet. He didn’t look too pleased to be interrupted in the process. “What do you want?”
“Can we come in?” I asked.
Raz’s eyes narrowed. “Both of you?”
No, I’d thought we’d leave Phil on the doorstep. “Yeah, if that’s okay.”
Phil butted in. “We just wanted to ask you a few questions about the Lea Valley Literati.”
“Why? Who are you? Police?”
“I’m a detective investigating the attempted murder of Cherry Paretski,” Phil said in an official-sounding voice. Nice, I thought. Make Raz think Phil was police without actually saying it.
Raz folded his arms. “Then you can show me some identification.”
Well, I guess it couldn’t work every time.
Phil wasn’t ruffled. “I’m not with the police. I’m a private investigator.”
“Then I don’t have to talk to you.” He started to shut the door.
“Hey, hang on a minute,” I said, putting my boot in. In the door, that was, not Raz’s face, although I won’t say I wasn’t tempted. “What if whoever it was tries again? You want my sister’s death on your conscience?”
His eyes opened wide. “Your sister? You’re Cherry’s brother?” Raz looked away, his mouth tight, like he was fighting against himself. Finally, he took a deep breath and turned back to me. “I didn’t know. Look, you can come in if you want. But not him.”
“Why not?” I was baffled.
“I don’t have to give a reason.” The arms were folded again. I could see the outline of a sleeveless T-shirt under his formal shirt. I guessed either he felt the cold a lot, or he was one of those blokes who are surprisingly hairy under their clothes and get a bit self-conscious about it.
Odd, though. Raz’s beard was thin enough that if it hadn’t been jet black, he’d never have got away with it, and he had a sort of softness about him, a bit like puppy fat. Then again, so did Gary, and he was older than me. I found myself wondering if Raz was gay. I’d have to ask Phil later, seeing as his gaydar was way more reliable than mine. Or, as he put it, I couldn’t find a fag in a Marlboro factory.
“It’s all right. I’ll see you back at Cherry’s, Tom.” Phil turned and stomped back down the stairs, leaving me with Raz.
Who was staring at me in a bit of a creepy way. Fan-bloody-tastic. “Come in, then,” he said at last.
The flat was small but neat. There wasn’t a lot of colour in the place, and it could have done with a cat or two, but it looked comfortable enough. Remembering my theory, I cast my eyes around for signs of Raz being gay, but unless you counted the arty black-and-white photos of suspiciously tall skyscrapers (symbolic, much?) there weren’t any.
“I’d offer you a coffee, but I don’t suppose you’d take a drink from a suspect in a poisoning case,” Raz said, angrily straightening a cushion that’d already looked pretty straight to me.
“Hey, who said you’re a suspect?”
Raz raised an eyebrow. “I’m not an idiot. And I’ve had dealings with the police before.”
That was interesting. “Phil’s not police.”
“Maybe not now. You hired him?”
“Uh, yeah.” I rubbed the back of my neck. “But he’s, well. We’re together.”
I got a sharp look. “Oh? You mean you work with him?”
“No.” I wasn’t about to come right out and say No, I sleep with him, but Raz seemed to get the message. He nodded, anyway.
“You should sit down.” We sat, him perched on the edge of the leather sofa and me lounging on the leather recliner, both of which were way too big for the flat. Did he have a bit of a leather fetish, our Raz? Or just size issues? “What did you want to ask about?”
I thought I’d leave the Did you try and kill my sister? for later. “Your old chairman. The one before Morgan.”
His brow creased up, and his glasses slipped down his nose. He push
ed them back up with an impatient finger. “David? Why?”
“He died, didn’t he?” I tried to listen in to the vibes from Raz’s place while we were talking, but it was hard to concentrate on both. Maybe if I was more relaxed? I leaned back a bit.
“Yes, but it was due to illness.”
“Yeah, gastroenteritis, from what I heard. Bit like food poisoning, that, innit?” I leaned back a bit farther, then sat up hastily as the recliner showed signs of slipping into full-on bed mode. Bugger. That was my concentration shot right to hell.
Raz looked distressed. “Are you suggesting he was murdered? That’s terrible. He was such a gentleman.”
“Can you think of any reason why someone in the circle might have wanted him out of the way?”
Raz got up. He must have realised he didn’t have enough floor space for proper pacing, so he just stood there in front of the sofa, looking like he was about to bolt for freedom any minute. I stood up too, with a bit of difficulty seeing as the recliner seemed to be having a few abandonment issues. Although whether it was so I could catch him or just to keep him company, I wasn’t sure. Raz wasn’t a big bloke, I realised. No taller than me, although he looked it from a distance because he was so bloody skinny.
Maybe that was why he hadn’t wanted Phil in here? Raz was dark skinned, and although I’d heard things were a lot better these days than they used to be, it wouldn’t be totally off the wall to speculate he’d had a bad experience with six-foot-plus policemen, ex or otherwise.
I took the opportunity to let the spidey-senses roam free. There was something there, all right—but the vibes were weird. Sort of defiant rather than ashamed, at least I thought so. It was hard to tell.
“I can’t,” Raz said at last, shaking his head at the carpet. “I can’t think of a single reason. This is all very upsetting. I—can you leave me your phone number? If I come up with anything, I’ll call you. I need a drink, and I haven’t eaten yet. I can’t think.” He glanced up at me. “Tell Cherry I’m sorry, please.”
Sod it. I only needed a few more minutes. Probably. “Can I just ask you a couple more questions? Then I’ll leave you alone, swear to God.”
