‘You are ridiculous!’ Athene is shouting. ‘Ri-di-cu-lous. Because it’s murder it’s a man’s job? Why? He is more intelligent? Women are more stupid? No. You are stupid, yes, but all women? No!’
‘Are you saying, Athene,’ I ask, banging my books down on my desk to attract their attention, ‘that it takes intelligence to be a murderer?’
She stares at me blankly. ‘No!’ she says. ‘When did I say that?’
‘For the policeman,’ Jamilleh says, wiping the tears from her eyes. ‘For the police must be intelligent. But I never said … I never said …’ she gives a venomous look at Athene ‘… men more intelligent than women. And I am NOT stupid!’
I sit down. ‘Well,’ I say, in the bright, soothing tone I sometimes use to Freda, ‘I’m a bit behind the curve here, but I’m sure Athene doesn’t think you’re stupid, Jamilleh, and in a bit when we’ve all calmed down, I’m sure she’ll want to apologise.’ I shoot Athene a warning glance as she gives a great huff of fury. ‘Juanita,’ I continue, ‘I think it’s safe to put your head over the parapet. No-one’s going to shoot you. And Ning Wu, do please come and join us. I don’t think there’ll be any more fireworks.’
Why am I speaking in metaphors? Parapet? Fireworks? Normally I would write the words on the board and unpack the metaphors but I don’t think this is the moment so I let it go. I turn to Farah. ‘I take it,’ I say, ‘that you were talking about the murder case?’
Farah nods and passes the paper across to me. The deaths of Karen and Lara Brody are the front-page story. They have been reported in the national press, and from there I learned little more than I knew already, except that Karen Brody’s common-law husband is in prison for armed robbery, but the Herald has breaking news in a Stop Press box, in bold. ‘The Herald understands,’ I read out loud, ‘that in the light of forensic evidence the police are treating the case as a double murder inquiry. Detective Chief Inspector David Scott has taken over the inquiry, replacing DS Paula Powell, who was leading it initially.’
‘Well!’ I say, taking off my glasses and laying them on the desk. And then, ‘Would you excuse me for a moment?’ I ask, and get my head down to rummage in my bag. This allows me some recovery time but I am also looking for my phone. David Scott has taken over the inquiry. When did that happen? How long has he been in Marlbury? When was he planning to tell me he was back? Is it just possible that he has been phoning or texting and I have missed his calls?
The answer to this last is no, as in my heart I knew. I put my phone away and turn the full beam of my attention back to my class.
‘So,’ I say, ‘the subject of your heated debate was whether a man makes a better detective in a murder inquiry than a woman does. Is that right, Jamilleh?’
Colour rises in Jamilleh’s face. ‘I didn’t say better,’ she insists, with a glare at Athene, who, all passion spent, has reverted to looking bored. ‘I said is more suitable for a man. Murder is not so nice for a woman.’
‘Ah, nice! We talked about nice the other day. What did we say?’
Ning Wu comes to life. ‘English people use a lot. It is safe word.’ She executes an operation on her iPad. ‘All-purpose word,’ she reads.
‘Exactly. Brainstorm. What kinds of things can we describe as nice?’
They rouse themselves to their task.
‘Nice weather!’
‘Nice day!’
‘Nice meal!’
‘Nice holiday!’
‘Nice view!’
‘Nice person!’
‘Good, yes.’ I hold up a stalling hand. ‘Nice person. So Jamilleh thinks Detective Sergeant Powell might be too nice to investigate a murder, but Chief Inspector Scott is maybe not so nice, because he’s a man.’ If they have spotted my shameless piece of sophistry here no-one raises an objection. ‘As a matter of fact,’ I continue, ‘I know Chief Inspector Scott and he is quite nice. If you met him you would think he was very nice, but maybe he’s not as nice as he seems.’
I turn to Athene. ‘Athene thinks he needs to be intelligent, and he certainly is that. But there are different kinds of intelligence, aren’t there, Juanita?’ Juanita gives a start as I intended that she should. She is unimpressed by my peroration and is sending a surreptitious text message. ‘Emotional intelligence, Juanita. What do you think that means?’
‘Maybe understanding how people feel?’ she asks.
‘Exactly. And at the risk of starting another row, I’d say that women are often better at that. Better at relationships altogether. Better at understanding, at trust and commitment. Men can be disappointing in that way.’ I’m keeping my voice light and level, swallowing the curdle of venom in my throat, but I see a flicker of alarm in some eyes at the slightly startling turn this class is taking. ‘And now,’ I say, ‘we’ll do the grammar test I promised.’ I distribute photocopied sheets. ‘Question forms. Fill in the gaps with the right question. Mostly in class you answer questions. Now it’s your chance to ask them.’
*
I have a meeting to finalise September resit papers immediately after the class, so I don’t get back to my office till five thirty and only then do I have the opportunity to ring David. I decide not to call his mobile because on that he can pretend to be anywhere. Instead I call his direct line at the police station and he picks up.
‘David Scott.’ He sounds preoccupied and unwary.
‘Really?’ I ask.
‘I’m sorry?’
‘Can that really be David Scott? That same David Scott who is at present in London, working with the Metropolitan Police, and cannot possibly have been teleported to Marlbury without bothering to inform the woman who has, possibly mistakenly, come to regard herself as his nearest and dearest.’
‘Gina.’
‘Yes, Gina. Remember me?’
‘Gina—’
‘When were you going to let me know you were back?’
‘I—’
‘When?’
There is a pause. I think I hear him sit down. I wait.
‘How about,’ he says eventually, ‘Hello David. You must have had a hard day, taking over a double murder inquiry at a moment’s notice, especially one involving a child, with all the distress that brings, not to mention the extra press interest. And then Paula must be pissed off having the case taken away from her so she can’t be easy to work with, and you won’t have enough officers on your team because of all the cuts, so I guess all in all you’re having a pretty shitty time and I wonder what I can do to make you feel better?’
Just for a moment I think my righteous anger might ooze away but I’m made of more obdurate stuff.
‘Well,’ I say, ‘I don’t think I will say that because you are, in fact, just doing your job and it’s what you get paid for – handsomely. The deaths of a young woman and a child – that’s horrible, but much worse for Paula, who actually saw the bodies, so don’t forget that. However, I am prepared to concede that it’s been a busy time and it is understandable that ringing me slipped down your list of priorities, but you could have rung me last night.’
‘I didn’t know last night.’
‘But it said in the Herald—’
‘The assistant commissioner rang me this morning.’
‘So the press knew before you did. What a brilliant organisation the police force is.’
‘I drove down from London first thing, and then drove to Wormwood Scrubs and back this afternoon to interview a prisoner, so I’m—’
‘Yes, yes. Poor you. I would offer you a quiet supper at my house but there is no quiet there. The house is full of youf.’
‘Full of what?’
‘Youf. The young. Annie’s friends. Staying in my house for an unspecified period, stripping my fridge and pantry with the effrontery of biblical locusts. If you want to see me, you’re going to have to take me out to eat.’
‘I was just going to pick up some fish and chips tonight. I’ll give you a ring tomorrow.’
‘I could come for fish and chips too.
We could eat them in the car and then snog.’
‘Fine.’
‘I wasn’t serious.’
‘Shame.’
‘I’ll talk to you tomorrow. Did Paula tell you about the dog?’
‘This dog keeps cropping up but I haven’t had the full story.’
‘I can tell you. I saw it. I was an eye witness.’
There is a lengthy pause.
‘Of course you were,’ he says, and he sounds very, very tired.
8
Saturday 21st July
Kitchen-Sink Drama and Apron Stage
I am not prepared to involve myself in the indolent Saturday morning habits of Annie and her posse. I don’t want to be party to messy fry-ups and people eating in their pyjamas and getting bacon fat on my Guardian, so I’m up as soon as the paper arrives and off with it to The Pumpkin, the off-beat organic café that forms an integral part of my Saturday morning ritual. I used to meet my friend, Eve, here for morning coffee but she’s living in Ireland now, blown west by a storm of scandal a couple of years ago, so now I usually go on my own. This morning, however, I text David before I leave the house. He has not been in touch since our conversation on Thursday afternoon – not even to follow up on my sighting of Karen and Lara on Tuesday – and I am still fairly annoyed with him but I decide to give him another chance. My text is breezy and cool: Prepared to bet you have nothing in for breakfast. I will be in The Pumpkin from 9.30. Join me?
Sitting in the café’s front window, watching the town beginning to come to life, I order coffee with a jug of hot milk and a granola square that comes laden with nuts and dried fruit and is as big as the plate it sits on. David has not replied to my text but he soon appears, dressed not for weekend slouching but for work.
‘Hi,’ he says, sitting down opposite me without a greeting kiss. ‘Paula will be here in a minute. She’s just parking.’
‘What?’ I choke so hard on my granola square that I think I may need him to perform the Heimlich manoeuvre on me. The closest we’re likely to get to physical contact I think grimly as I recover and swallow some soothing coffee.
‘It’s a work day, Gina,’ he says in a tone one uses to an unreasonable child. ‘We’re talking to you as a witness.’
‘Paula’s heard it before.’
‘And she’s filled me in and we both want to ask you some questions.’
‘Would you like some of this granola thing?’ I ask. ‘I can’t possibly manage all of—’
‘No thanks,’ he says.
He summons the waitress. ‘Poached eggs on toast for two,’ he says, ‘and more coffee.’
‘I don’t want poached eggs,’ I protest.
‘They’re for Paula.’
‘How do you know that’s what she wants?’
‘I asked her.’
‘And she said, I’ll have whatever you’re having. How sweet.’
He doesn’t reply and Paula soon appears, also crisply turned out in jacket and trousers for a work day. She sits down next to David so that the two of them are looking across the table at me in full interview mode.
‘Hi,’ she says to me, and then to David, ‘Have you ordered?’
‘Poached eggs.’
‘Perfect.’
I think I may be going to be sick.
‘So, Gina,’ David says, ‘you saw Karen and Lara Brody on Tuesday afternoon with their dog—’
‘Billy,’ I say
‘What?’
‘Billy. The dog was called Billy.’
‘Right. Well, I think that’s a detail we can do without. What time exactly did you see them?’
‘Around four o’clock, I suppose.’
‘The manager of the nursery confirmed that,’ Paula tells David.
‘Good thing you’re here to check up on me,’ I tell her. She ignores me.
‘Did Karen look as though she had been drinking?’ David asks.
I consider. ‘It didn’t cross my mind that she had,’ I say. ‘I’d never seen her before so I had nothing to compare with but she looked quite normal.’
‘But she didn’t attend the performance by the children that the rest of you were at?’
‘She could hardly have taken the dog in, could she? Anyway, she was just picking up a child – Liam – who wasn’t hers, I gather.’ I give Paula a non-smile.
The eggs and coffee arrive and the interview is suspended. I pick at my granola square and watch them eat. I’ve never been a big fan of eggs, and this morning, as I look at the yolks running over the plates and being mopped up with toast, I find them truly revolting. I would take myself off to the loo but I know they’ll talk about me while I’m gone, so I sip my coffee and look out of the window.
‘So,’ David says eventually, ‘once the dog was back on its lead, what did the woman do then?’
‘Which woman?’
‘The woman in the burqa.’
‘Technically, it wasn’t a burqa,’ I say. ‘I explained to Paula. It was a niqab. The difference is that a niq—’
‘I think we’re sticking to burqa,’ David says. ‘Keeps things simple.’
‘Simple’s the word,’ I mutter into my coffee.
‘So what happened to her?’
‘She hobbled off.’
‘Hobbled?’
‘Yes. It looked as though she had a bad leg – or hip.’
‘So she wasn’t young?’
‘I don’t think so. I thought she must be a grandmother.’
‘And she was on her own?’
‘As far as I could see. She certainly left on her own. One of my students went after her to try and help but she didn’t seem to want help.’
‘Who was the student?’
‘Jamilleh Hamidi. She’s Iranian.’
‘I’d like to talk to her.’
‘You’ll need to be careful. Her husband won’t like the police coming to talk to his wife. Remember that time with the Turkish wives?’
‘It might be better if you talk to her, Paula,’ David says. ‘Maybe you could talk to her at the college, with Gina there to help?’
He turns from her to raise a questioning eyebrow at me. I turn back to the window. ‘Maybe,’ I say.
‘And we need to track down the woman in the bur— niqab,’ he says.
‘The staff at the nursery didn’t know who she was,’ Paula puts in. ‘They thought she must be someone’s grandmother.’
‘Does your Iranian student know her?’ David asks me.
‘No. From the niqab she thinks she might be Somali. She thinks she’s a peasant, anyway.’
‘But she must be related to someone who is studying at the university, or on the staff there?’
‘She might have a very upwardly mobile son or daughter studying or working there. Anyway, anyone who works there can put their child in the nursery – cleaners, canteen staff, ground staff. Only it’s expensive, so it’s mostly academic staff who use it, or students, who get a discount.’
‘Are there many Muslim children in the nursery?’
‘I’m sure Paula has that information,’ I say. ‘She’s the detective, after all.’
There is a silence. We all sip our coffee,
‘Are you going to tell me,’ I ask, ‘how they died?’
‘No.’ David’s reply is instant and brusque enough to make me want to hurl the mustard pot at him.
‘Can I ask why not?’
‘It’s confidential.’
‘And I am not in your confidence?’
‘Not as far as this is concerned.’
Paula says, ‘It helps to weed out the nutters. Any high-profile case you get nutters confessing to the crime. If we haven’t given out details we can quickly establish that we don’t need to waste time on them.’
‘Well,’ I say, gathering up my bags for my trip to the supermarket, ‘you could at least tell me how the dog died.’
She glances at David. ‘Throat cut in the kitchen sink,’ she says. And then, ‘Well, you did ask.’
We
go our separate ways, David graciously picking up the tab. I cycle on to Sainsbury’s, where I stock up on locust food and summon Annie to pick it up. When she arrives – in slippers and pyjamas, so I’m the one who has to hump everything onto the back seat – I ask if she and her friends have plans for the evening. ‘Showing them Marlbury nightlife?’ I ask, hopefully.
She looks shocked. ‘It’s Strictly!’ she says. ‘Can’t be missed.’
‘There are frozen pizzas in there,’ I say, nodding to the food bags. ‘You can cook those. I’m not watching Strictly and I’m not cooking.’
‘Well you’re a little ray of sunshine this morning,’ she says, and slams her door closed. Then she winds the window down. ‘The kitchen sink’s blocked,’ she says, and I have to close my eyes because the dog is there, bleeding in my sunny yellow kitchen. I take a deep breath.
‘Soda crystals,’ I say. ‘You’ve cooked a fry-up – I can smell it on you – and you’ve poured a lot of fat down the drain. There are soda crystals at the back of the cupboard under the sink. Use them with boiling water. Do it properly. I don’t want to have to deal with it when I get back.’
‘You are My Sunshine’ she sings as she winds up the window.
I’m not going home with her because I am still avoiding home and I have an excuse. This afternoon I have a rehearsal in the abbey gardens where, in ten days’ time, the Marlbury University Staff Drama Group are to put on a production of Much Ado About Nothing. As ever, I have been tasked with doing the costumes, but I also have a role: I am playing Ursula, the unsexy one of a pair of waiting women. I do have one good scene, though, and I ought to be enjoying rehearsals more than I am.
The problem is the director. His name is Dominic and he is ‘A Professional’. This means, I suspect, that amateur groups have occasionally paid him small sums, as we have done, to direct them. Dominic likes to remind us at every opportunity of his professional status. What you’re doing, dear,’ he said to our Beatrice at one rehearsal, ‘is what we in the profession call upstaging.’ Is there anyone with only a passing interest in the theatre, who doesn’t know what upstaging is? Let alone Alison, who is playing Beatrice and is a senior lecturer in theatre studies? What’s more, the scene she was playing was her big scene in which she challenges Benedick to kill his best friend, so she’s entitled to upstage him if she wants to, isn’t she?
Weep a While Longer Page 6
