by Simon Parke
‘Victimhood doesn’t suit you,’ said Tamsin sharply.
‘No, but I do seem to bring out the self-righteous in people, and then they come at me like maniacs, powered by moral outrage, which is quite the nastiest of fuels.’
‘But if we’re being honest, Martin – which is occasionally possible – where would you be without it?’ asked the abbot with a smile. Martin seemed to thrive on the rage of the self-righteous. In Peter’s view, it was how Martin knew he was alive. What he’d become if it ever stopped . . . well, his decline might be very sudden. Martin needed the attention of public outrage like others needed calm.
‘For some unknown reason, she didn’t like my approach to all the loonies on the south coast,’ he said. Raised eyebrows greeted him.
‘I’m sorry?’ said Peter, wondering if he’d heard aright.
‘And we’re not short of them, believe me. We have a stack of loony huts around here; or “care homes”, as she’d prefer them to be called.’
He had heard aright. ‘I can see why she might have been a little upset,’ said Peter.
‘But we stayed in touch. No point in falling out over something like that, and I warmed to her campaigning spirit. We need more of that!’
‘You mean you fancied her?’ suggested Tamsin.
‘Oh, really. Must everything come down to sex? Haven’t we moved on from Freud?’
‘I’m not sure men have,’ said Tamsin.
‘Well, we flirted mildly, I suppose; attractive woman, of course. And she wrote us some rather delectable pieces, full of virtuous fury, as chair of the Stormhaven Charity Forum.’
‘And the Etiquette Society? Why did she muddy her feet in that?’
‘Oh, she joined us on the “civility” ticket.’
‘The civility ticket?’ Tamsin couldn’t say it without laughing a little.
‘A desire to see the disadvantaged and needy treated with more civility,’ said a straight-faced Martin.
‘Your vision exactly.’
‘Well, it was hardly the founding ideal of the society, no. In fact, the thought hadn’t crossed my mind. But it worked for her. I didn’t know she was a churchwarden at the time or I might have behaved better.’
‘Really?’
‘No. I’d have behaved worse, probably. I certainly had no idea she was running a knocking shop, which is really quite wonderful. Sly old thing! Ah, the opportunities missed!’
‘Is this your version of grief?’ asked Peter.
Channing paused, a brief sadness across his face. ‘If we brought grief to our lives, Abbot, we would cry all day, don’t you think?’
‘Maybe.’
‘So I prefer not to. I really prefer not to.’ Peter nodded. ‘And to be honest, your grief is rather more apparent than mine right now.’
‘That may be true,’ said Peter.
‘And Geoff?’ asked Tamsin, wishing to move on.
‘What can I say about Geoff?’
‘You can tell us what Geoff is doing in the Stormhaven Etiquette Society.’
‘Geoff is an estate agent who would like to rule the world.’ Martin allowed a moment for impact. ‘He actually hates the estate agent label. He doesn’t think it grand enough for him – so I use it all the time. He thinks it demeans him, when he is so much more than that! He’s an amateur thespian, of course, hogging all the best parts in the local theatre productions. But he probably wants to be mayor as well . . . he does like dressing up.’
‘So again the question: why is he a member of the Etiquette Society?’
‘I sold it to him on the elitist ticket. A secret society of the rich and powerful, keeping a paternal eye on the well-being of Stormhaven, exposing the bad eggs and the disreputable while applauding the righteous . . . like Geoff.’
‘I sense it wasn’t a hard sell?’
‘Any opportunity to network and Geoff’s in, believe me. But really, this is ridiculous, even for the police. You don’t seriously think the murderer is a member of the Stormhaven Etiquette Society?’
‘We need to talk,’
said Tara, now the sole owner of Model Service.
‘If you’re quick,’ said Cherise. ‘I have a client at three and I’m not missing ’im.’
‘Such commitment to the cause.’
‘Well generous last time, he was! Who said there aren’t sugar daddies in Stormhaven! Up and coming town, this!’
Her emphasis on ‘up and coming’ left little to the imagination, but then that was Cherise for you, her sort of humour. Katrina didn’t approve; she was Catholic, after all, and a close friend of the Virgin Mary. But whatever their jokes, Katrina liked her colleagues well enough. She felt safe here, which was not something she could say for much of her life. Here in Church Street she sensed they were in it together; they were sisters, watching out for each other. They did look after you here. Rosemary had made sure of that.
So Tara and Cherise were Katrina’s colleagues, but not her friends. They didn’t socialize away from this place. They met every Monday in the small reception area to talk through anything that had arisen in the week – another double entendre Cherise never let pass. Did the English never tire of this humour?
‘It’s what the seaside is all about, Kat!’ Cherise would say. ‘Double meanings. ’Aven’t you seen the postcards?’
She had seen the postcards, even though she tried hard to avoid them. And she’d seen them because they drew Anastazy like magnets; he’d gaze upon each with fascination. She had found some under his bed recently, which wasn’t what she wanted. The boy needed a father-figure to help him through the teenage years.
‘I do not see the “double meanings” as so funny,’ she said. ‘What is funny about it? I think it is more disgusting than funny.’
‘It’s not like anyone takes them serious or anythin’.’
‘Boys do. I have to tell Anastazy that nurses are not like that in real life.’
‘He’ll find that out soon enough.’
‘What if he thinks nurses are like that – and says something? Or does something?’
‘It’s just harmless fun,’ said Cherise. ‘It’s what men are like.’
‘And I don’t enjoy what men are like. Why do they have to look at women in that way?’
‘How do you want them to look at you?’ asked Tara, who really couldn’t be doing with all this moral outrage from the second busiest prostitute on her books.
They were a good team. Tara looked after their website but Cherise was forever coming up with ideas as to how they could improve it. They’d recently added a Polish section, written by Katrina, which had made quite an impact. But with the death of Rosemary, what now of their future? That was the big question today.
Katrina had liked Rosemary. She’d been a mother to her on her arrival in this strange town. Clear, straightforward, practical, distant, but kind. Rosemary understood how to get things done, whether it was finding a school for Anastazy or setting up Stormhaven’s first brothel. Perhaps Cherise struggled with her for the very reasons Katrina liked her, she thought. No doubt Cherise would have preferred someone more chaotic, more flamboyant – ‘and less helpin’ everyone all the time!’ as she put it. ‘I can’t be doing with all this helpin’ people!’
Or maybe Cherise was simply born to complain. She did complain a lot, while making a very good living through escort work, Skype performances and sex. Rarely would she take home less than £1,000 a week, and often it was more.
‘I want to reassure you that everything will continue as it is,’ said Tara.
‘How do you know?’ asked Cherise. She didn’t take things on trust, never had. Why take anything on trust when the world so often let you down? This is why Cherise was a planner of future pathways. Keep your options open, girl, that was her motto. Never allow yourself to be trapped.
‘Because I am now the sole owner of the business,’ said Tara simply and clearly. Katrina and Cherise looked at each other and then back at Tara. ‘Rosemary’s death is a tragedy. But ne
ither of you will be victims of that tragedy.’
‘You’re the owner now – of everythin’?’
‘I am.’
‘Rosemary was a good person,’ said Katrina.
‘She was a good person.’ Tara could say that without feeling a fraud. ‘But Rosemary is dead, and it’s very sad, but I own the business now and I intend to make it work for us all.’
It was possible she wasn’t expressing quite enough regret. But she was trying to be kind, to sound firm and certain, to reassure the girls about their future. Of course she was sad, but life had to go on. Rosemary would want that.
‘My boyfriend won’t be pleased,’ said Cherise, idly checking her phone. She checked her phone without realizing she was checking her phone. Hers was possibly the most checked phone on the south coast.
‘And wherein lies your boyfriend’s interest?’ said Tara, with disdain. Cherise’s boyfriends never stayed long, the relationships always troubled. Tara felt weary at the thought of them, but this was how Cherise chose to live. Her first day of peace would be spent in a coffin.
‘He wants me out of all this, doesn’t he?’
‘They’ve all wanted you out of it, Cherise.’
‘I know,’ said Cherise vaguely. ‘But this one certainly does.’
‘And can you blame him?’ asked Katrina. It was not a profession that looked kindly on partners. When she got home, she did not want to see a man; she wanted to see her son.
‘He knew what I did. It wasn’t as if I kept it a secret or anythin’. Well, I told ’im on our second date. It didn’t stop ’im then.’
‘Until the thrill wore off,’ said Tara wearily. ‘And then he started getting all proprietorial.’ This was hardly breaking news; it had happened before and would happen again. Sex workers spent half their lives on their backs and the other half trying to sort out their love lives. This was Tara’s experience and it was laced with bitterness. The men she’d liked had not liked her trade, and so she found herself alone in her forties.
‘He likes the money,’ said Cherise.
‘They do at first.’
‘And does he really think I’d earn that in an office ordering paper clips or working in a care home? No way, José! And I’ve done office work, anyway, I was, like, so bored.’
‘So perhaps he killed Rosemary,’ said Katrina.
‘What?’
‘Perhaps your boyfriend thinks that if he kills her, there is no Model Service, you have to stop, you have to get a job in B&Q or something.’
And for a moment – though it was probably a joke, Katrina could be dry – Cherise did wonder if this might be true. Well, you don’t know, do you? She’d only met him recently. And who else would want to kill Rosemary?
‘All mothers hate their daughters,’
said Blessings. ‘That’s quite normal.’
She paused for a moment for effect. She was used to being heard, to being listened to, used to making pronouncements that people must take account of. And Blessings liked that: the fact that she was heard. ‘Not all the time, obviously. One doesn’t hate one’s daughter all the time. But at certain moments all mothers wish their daughters dead.’
Tamsin nodded in acquiescence, as if nothing unreasonable had been uttered. ‘And vice versa,’ she added.
‘Vice versa?’
‘All daughters hate their mothers; most of the time, actually.’
Blessings was shocked. This was not meant to be a two-way street.
‘And the commandments?’ she asked with incredulity.
‘Which commandments?’ asked Tamsin.
‘The Ten Commandments, Detective Inspector. I trust you remember them?’
‘I’m not good with lists.’
‘The commandments given to Moses, the great law-maker? I’m surprised a detective inspector needs an explanation.’
‘I did see the film,’ said Tamsin, aware this would irritate. ‘Two hours of my life I’ll never get back.’
‘Find me two hours that you will,’ said Peter.
‘Honour your father and mother!’ said Blessings, on a mission. ‘That is number four in the list.’
The abbot wondered if Tamsin might need some help at this point; but from her reply, apparently not.
‘You do know Moses wasn’t brought up by his mother and father,’ said Tamsin.
Blessings looked surprised. ‘Is this relevant to the case?’ she asked.
‘They put him in a basket, as far as I remember.’
‘They did,’ said the abbot, feeling like a witness in this trial. ‘They feared he might be murdered, so they hid him in a basket in the river.’
Tamsin framed it differently. ‘They put him in a wicker basket in a large river and left him to the uncertain care of the water . . . and the local crocodiles.’
‘Needs must,’ said Blessings.
‘Where fortunately – one in a million chance, really – he was found by the king’s daughter and brought up as an Egyptian prince. Which probably saved his parents from a child neglect charge.’
‘Your knowledge of Scripture is . . . well, exemplary,’ said Peter.
‘So he never knew them,’ said Tamsin, triumphantly, like a barrister winding up a case.
‘His mother may have been his wet nurse,’ said Peter quietly.
‘Doesn’t count.’
‘Right.’
‘It isn’t the same at all.’
‘Is this going anywhere?’ asked Blessings.
‘Moses never knew his parents as parents,’ said Tamsin. ‘Which might have made honouring them a good deal easier. That’s where it’s going.’
Blessings smiled at the contest; professional respect, perhaps.
‘And if we’re using the Scriptures as testimony,’ added the abbot, ‘I’m not sure they commend hating your daughter either, Mrs N’Dayo. “Suffer the little children” and all that. Though I do understand that children drive parents to despair.’
‘They do,’ agreed Blessings.
‘That’s where I drove my parents anyway, and I was quite right to do so.’
How had they got here? Wasn’t this a murder enquiry?
‘And where’s Dinah at school?’ asked Tamsin, wanting to move on. She’d enjoyed the contest but had no interest in other people’s commandments.
‘Roedean.’
‘Your old school.’
‘If I had to put up with it, I definitely think she should. It’s a hellhole, obviously, as I well know.’
‘An expensive hellhole.’
Blessings smiled indulgently; she did not look like one concerned about cost. Martin had told them that circuit judges earn around £140,000 a year. And he knew the price of everything.
‘I look forward to the day when one or two of my classmates appear before me in court,’ said Blessings, ‘and I use the word “mates” loosely. There are some scores to settle.’
Peter pondered the trials and tribulations of Judge Blessings N’Dayo: unhappy school days in a strange land; the decision not to follow her parents back to her homeland of Ghana; the historic racism and sexism of the legal world. ‘Cold and hard as an ice pick in Alaska,’ Martin had said. And a fighter, thought Peter.
‘It’s important she boards,’ continued Blessings. ‘There needs to be some distance between us. I’m sure she’d agree.’ There was a pause. ‘She’s not an unhappy girl, of course – before you call for the social services. As I always tell her, only dull ordinary families have stay-at-home mothers – and we are neither dull nor ordinary.’
‘No.’
‘And I read through all her diaries. I mean, I think she means me to.’
‘Really?’
‘Leaving them in her drawer. Though she goes quite crazy when she finds out, in true drama queen style.’
‘Does that surprise you?’ asked Tamsin.
‘Does what surprise me?’
‘That she goes crazy when you read her private thoughts.’ Tamsin was seething. ‘I’m surprised that you’r
e surprised.’
‘They’re full of teenage nonsense, of course,’ said Blessings, ignoring the question. ‘The diaries, I mean – all despair and heartache! Laughable, really. And so I call her “Nonsense” – a much better name for her – which just makes her angry again.’
‘Not a good name,’ said Peter.
‘But she speaks nonsense most of the time, so appropriate. She’ll get through it. Come to her senses.’
‘She will,’ said Peter gently.
‘And then do something awful with her life, no doubt . . . but basically, a very happy girl. Very happy.’
Blessings had said more than she intended; but she wouldn’t be judged by these people. She wouldn’t be judged by anyone, never again. Not by her father or anyone.
‘And how did you know Rosemary?’ asked Tamsin. They weren’t here to offer parenting classes.
‘Well, I didn’t know Rosemary, not really. Apart from her being a fellow member of the Stormhaven Etiquette Society. But it isn’t like we all holiday together.’
‘Who do you holiday with?’ asked Tamsin, realizing her mistake instantly.
‘I’m not sure that’s any of your business, DI Shah. I understand the parameters of a murder investigation, both inside and outside a court, and that doesn’t include random nosiness.’
Tamsin and the abbot felt the sudden presence of a judge and the dynamic changed for a moment.
‘Did you like her?’
‘Who?’
‘Rosemary.’
Blessings made a face that ridiculed the question as a waste of time. ‘Like her? Did anyone like Rosemary? She treated Terence like her puppy, which was somewhat amazing; but if that’s what he wants. Tea, anyone?’
‘Did you want Terence as your puppy?’ asked the abbot.
Blessings stopped for a moment . . . and then dismissed the words. ‘A laughable idea.’
‘So you couldn’t imagine anyone wishing to kill Rosemary?’
‘I could imagine everyone wishing to kill Rosemary.’
‘Because?’
Blessings got up from her seat and moved across to the old fireplace. ‘Because she was so good, simple as that.’
‘That’s usually a reason for people to like you, isn’t it?’
