A Corpse Called Bob

by Benedict Brown

  “No, nothing like that. I’ve been helping out at a clinic for AIDS sufferers in South Africa. Wait, what did the police want?”

  Danny has a lovely smile. If there’s one thing in the world I’d like to steal and keep for myself, it’s his pretty smile. I’d put it in a box with a padlock on.

  I suddenly realised that I’d forgotten to speak. “It was nothing. Just that my boss got killed and I found the body. No big deal.”

  Which is when he pulled me into his chest and wrapped me up in his big arms. Danny is almost as tall as me and subsequently the only man I’d ever hugged without feeling like King Kong crushing some blonde chick.

  “You poor thing. That must have been terrible.”

  “It was.”

  His t-shirt was soft against my face and smelt like a bonfire for some reason.

  This is the last warning, Izzy. Pull away now or I’ll start forgetting happy memories from your childhood.

  You wouldn’t dare.

  I’ll do it, you just try me.

  Fine, but stop talking to me. You’re making us seem like a crazy person.

  I pulled away, carefully avoiding the dreaminess of his eyes.

  “I’d better get inside. I had an extra-spicy curry pasty for breakfast and I think it’s about to have its revenge.”

  Smooth, very smooth.

  I told you to shut up.

  “Right,” Danny said with an uncomfortable look on his face. “And I should see to lunch.”

  I made myself scarce, running into the house and up to the bathroom where I sat staring at my phone for five minutes. It was probably the first time in my life I wanted a handsome man to believe I was busy on the toilet. When I’d finished – pretending that is – I went downstairs for lunch.

  My stepdad Greg was hard at work laying the table. Greg is Mum’s third husband – “One too old, one too young, the third just right,” as she likes to explain. They met on an Ashram retreat in Monmouthshire. As well as being a professional painter, he’s a trained Yogi, whereas Mum was just there to top up her chakra. They’ve been married for about five years and I’m sincerely glad they’re so happy together, though the fact their bedroom’s next to mine also makes me wish they’d never met.

  “Have you recovered from your murderous ordeal?” Greg had none of his wife’s over the top pep and I liked him all the more for it. He didn’t take his eyes off the cutlery he was carefully arranging as I sat down at the table.

  “Pretty much.”

  Greg does everything in his own serious, competent way. He leaves all the interfering to my mother and generally treats me like I have a brain. Though they’re about the same age, Greg looks all of his sixty-six years and has the most wonderfully expressive wrinkles across his face and ice-white locks that spring outwards in wiry curls.

  “Good.” He moved on to the plates and positioned them across the table with all of the care he’d give to one of his watercolours.

  Mum came to sit down beside me as our chef appeared from the garden with a small cauldron.

  “This is my new discovery. It’s called Potjiekos. The only way to cook it is on an open fire. It just doesn’t taste the same otherwise.” As well as being gorgeous and a saint, Danny is a phenomenally good cook – to round out the package he’s no doubt a genius with a feather duster and gives the world’s greatest backrubs. Sometimes I’m almost repulsed by his perfectness. Almost.

  “Sounds wonderful, Danny.” Mum blatantly wishes he was her son.

  He set the black pot down on the table and whisked the lid off to reveal a chunky stew which instantly reminded me I hadn’t consumed anything since my ill-chosen breakfast. Even Greg let out an ooh, as the smell wafted up magically into our nostrils.

  “Hello?” a voice called, shortly followed by the sound of the slamming front door. “Hello? Are you there?”

  It was my father, who appeared in the dining room, with a bottle of unchilled white wine under one arm. He’d retired several years earlier but still pottered about all day in his oily mechanic’s overalls.

  “Hello, Ted.” Mum was not surprised to see him.

  “Dad, why are you here again?”

  “Have… Have I done something wrong?” Dad stuttered when he was nervous. “Rosie invited me.”

  “Do you have your own key?”

  “There’s nothing strange about it, Izzy.” My mother had already grabbed a plate for her ex-ex-husband.

  “Yes there is.” I tried to sound grumpy but was more or less resigned to his visits. “You broke up twenty years ago. Why can’t you be like normal, happily divorced parents and never speak to each other?”

  Our chef overruled me. “Don’t listen to your daughter, Ted. You’re very welcome here.”

  I was completely outnumbered and Mum hadn’t finished. “Izzy, dear, I respect your father as a man and a human being. The fact we’re not married shouldn’t stop us being friends.”

  “No, but the fact that you were married should.”

  Back when I wanted more than anything for them to be together, my parents had nothing to do with each other. Since Dad moved to the neighbourhood a few months before, he’d become a regular caller.

  “Ted, our daughter is being terribly mean and won’t give us any of the details on her boss’s murder.”

  “Come on, darling.” Five years younger than my ever-youthful mother, my father was settling comfortably into old age. The grey eyes that he’d passed down to me crumpled up in a plea that he knew I couldn’t resist. “Tell us what you know.”

  “Oh, all right.” I let out a sigh, secretly rather happy to show off in front of Danny. “If it’ll shut you all up.”

  I ran my taped-together family through the gory details, stopping only to field questions from my over-eager parents.

  Dad put one finger up like he was about to make a significant point. “Who would have wanted him dead?”

  “Just about everyone. He was repugnant.” I spoke through a mouthful of delicious South African stew. “The question is who went ahead and did it.”

  “What about clues at the scene?” Greg’s interest was piqued.

  “I’ve thought about that. It’s hard to know what’s relevant though. He wasn’t sitting in his own chair, which I thought was a bit odd. He was in front of his desk with his back to the door and his hands were splayed out on top of his notepad.”

  “Was there a message on the pad?” Mum was a true Christieite at heart. “Were his fingers pointing to anything?”

  “Only the name of the company, I don’t suppose that could mean much.”

  “Unless he was pointing to the initials of the killer?”

  “His left index finger was over the letter P, so perhaps Pauline from accounts did it, but the right hand was nowhere in particular. To be honest, it seems like something of a challenge to slump in precisely the right direction as you release your final breath.”

  No one responded. We sat considering the evidence as we slurped Danny’s stew.

  After lunch I retreated from the world of dead bosses and pointless speculation to my own private refuge. My bedroom hasn’t changed much in the last ten years. I’m like the mother of a missing child who refuses to touch the teenage time capsule they’ve left behind. It would feel wrong to take down the boyband posters and school sports day certificates from my blu-tack-pockmarked walls.

  Above my bed is a shelf with forty-one red, leather-bound books on it. Each one has Agatha Christie’s scrawling signature in small gold letters on the spine. My mother gave me them on my eleventh birthday and I’d read every one of them – all sixty-six novels and every short story collection – before my next birthday came around. As a geeky kid, picked on for my glasses, wheaten hair and the hippyish clothes my mother dressed me in on mufti day, they were my portal to another world.

  In Christie’s books I found all the genteel elegance that my Chinese-burnt, spitball-infested adolescence was lacking – along with scores upon scores of dead bodies. It was hard
for me to understand why my mother would encourage me to read such blood-spattered tales which, if it weren’t for the presence of well turned-out, elderly gentlemen or nosey old maids surreptitiously investigating the crimes, would most definitely have been considered not suitable for children.

  From August 2003 to October 2004, I barely slept at night. Mammoth, after-dinner reading sessions stretched into the early hours of the morning, at which point the hunger to know exactly how the showgirl had been done away with or the wealthy widow finished off would overcome my heavy eyelids or submit to a nodding head. Such furious consumption would have carried on much longer if it hadn’t been for my ancient former-stepfather (daddy number two) catching me one night, reading under the covers with a torch like a teen boy with a lingerie catalogue. After that, my collection was taken away and I was restricted to one book a week, thereby teaching me the art of moderation.

  These days I only allow myself to spend the afternoon with Poirot or take tea with Miss Marple when I really need it. Occasionally, enough time will have passed between readings for me to forget who the killer is and I can luxuriate once more in the thrill of the protagonist’s detective work.

  Sitting on my bed, I was contemplating pulling down “The Mysterious Affair at Styles”, figuring that today of all days I deserved it, when my pocket started to vibrate. I pulled my phone out but didn’t recognise the number.

  “Hello?”

  “Izzy, it’s David. How are you doing?”

  It took me a moment to work out who David was and why he was calling me.

  “Fine thanks, boss.” I sounded like some peppy reporter from an old film. I had never spoken to him on the phone before and didn’t know what to say. “Just great really.”

  He sighed down the line. “That’s good to hear. I wanted to tell you not to come back in today. The police are busy here and so I’ve sent everyone home.”

  “Oh… thanks very much.” The thought hadn’t entered my mind.

  “Did you have any trouble at the station? I hope you could prove you weren’t involved?” It was odd the way he phrased it. He spoke about Bob’s death like any other office emergency; a broken photocopier or missing courier delivery.

  “I was with someone last night when they think Bob was murdered. I should be okay.”

  “That’s a relief.” Something in the way he spoke told me that his quiet efficiency was just an act.

  “David, are you okay?”

  He didn’t respond at first. I could hear him breathing but he didn’t say anything for a few seconds. “No. I feel guilty actually. I was never that nice to Bob. It’s no secret that we didn’t get on, but no one should have to die the way he did.”

  “Yes, it’s a tragedy.” Now I was the one who sounded unconvincing.

  “He has kids. I know his wife. No matter what I thought of him personally, it’s still not fair on them.”

  “David, I …” I stopped myself from offering advice to the managing director of my company who, until then, had barely said two words to me. “Thank you for looking out for me this morning. It was kind of you.”

  He cleared his throat and I re-engaged his executive persona. “It was purely selfish. I can’t have you suing the company for harassment now, can I?”

  “It was kind all the same.”

  The line crackled three times before he spoke. “No problem, Izzy. And thanks for listening.”

  The phone went dead without either of us saying goodbye, which is weird because I thought that only happened on TV. Our conversation left me with the sense that David’s distant tone and distracted demeanour didn’t quite add up in the circumstances. He was now firmly placed on my list of potential suspects.

  There was a bunch of messages from my best friend Ramesh but I wasn’t in the mood to reply. I reached for my book and was just settling in to the warm, familiar tones of Captain Hastings’ narration – like slipping on an old cardigan – when the phone rang once more. Again, the number was unrecognised.

  “Did you miss me so soon?” I said flirtily and then instantly regretted it. “Oh, I’m sorry, David, that was incredibly unprofessional. I–”

  “Izzy?” It was too high and nasal to be my boss’s voice.

  “Who’s that?”

  “It’s Dean, Dean Shipman from Bromley.” He of the Burger Baron date and small talk on my blood type – not to mention a particularly underdeveloped moustache. I wanted to hang up but thought better of it.

  “Hi, Dean. How’s things?”

  “They were fine until the police called to ask where I was last night. I’m a very private person, Izzy. I don’t like giving out personal information.”

  “Sorry about that. I didn’t mean to get you involved, but it is rather important you confirm what I told them.”

  “I already have, for God’s sake.” Huffing as he spoke, he sounded like a disgruntled gnome.

  “Thanks. I really appreciate it.”

  “Good. So when are we going out again?”

  Chapter Four

  I’ve never understood why the men I go out with want to date me. I figure it’s more sport than romance. As much for the stories they can tell their friends as a hope for long-term love. Like big game hunting or capturing the great white whale.

  I learnt a long time ago that most men don’t understand the intricacies of being with someone much taller than them. First kisses are always horrendous so, depending on the height difference, I make a point of only allowing such occurrences when we’re both sitting down. This does make it trickier to move the relationship to the next level.

  You’d think the solution would be to only date men who are my height, but believe me, I’ve tried. Either tall men can take their pick and aren’t interested, or… well, that’s the only reason I’ve come up with actually.

  I started using dating apps about a year ago and, though it helps to stave off the loneliness of staying home every night with my parents, it also increases the likelihood of me being locked up in a stranger’s basement. If I was being polite, I’d call the majority of the men I meet a little odd. If I was being honest, I’d call them maladjusted weirdoes with the social skills of a horny polar bear.

  There should be some sort of verification system on these apps. It’s difficult to sort the online wheat from the digital chaff. Take Dean Shipman from Bromley, for example. His profile had a moody, black and white photo of himself looking like some 50s matinee idol and he listed his hobbies as literature, visual arts and travel. Personally, I don’t think that Star Wars comics, erotic robot anime and an annual trip to Bognor Regis fit into the aforementioned categories.

  I decided to get my compulsory second date out of the way as soon as possible and arranged to meet Dean that night. I dressed up in my third-best gym clothes in the hope he’d get the message that I wasn’t interested.

  We met at Hayes Station, the closest landmark to my house, chosen to ensure this token rendezvous would take up as little time as possible. He was dressed in a black, military utility jacket with matching cargo trousers. His patchy moustache, baby face and constantly shifting stare made it seem like he’d just come from planning a school shooting.

  “You’re even taller than I remembered.”

  “Hello, Dean.” I attempted to smile at his silver-tongued opening line.

  He nervously shifted his weight from foot to foot. “Where are we eating?”

  “There’s an Indian round the corner.”

  “Can’t.” He sounded like a stubborn five-year-old.

  “You can’t or you don’t want to?” It’s funny that the one quality I’ve never considered in a potential partner is their need for mothering.

  “Allergic,” he replied, with his stupid little unfinished goatee wiggling about.

  “How can you be allergic to– Never mind, what about Chinese?”

  “Don’t like it.”

  “Okay. What do you like?”

  “I’m not picky,” he said, like I was trying to insult him. “
I can do pizza, burgers, kebab or Nandos.”

  So, after the culinary joys of the night before, we sampled a restaurant I hadn’t had the chance to try in a long time. At least this one had cutlery. We went to a Wimpy.

  “This is amazing,” Dean said as we sat down in their best booth. “I haven’t been to one since I was six.”

  “Shocking.”

  He wasn’t listening. He was carefully studying the menu which a slightly zombified waiter had placed before us. It was three minutes before Dean spoke again, the side orders were a particular source of interest.

  “You didn’t make much effort tonight. You looked better yesterday.”

  “That’s sweet of you to say.” I was trying not to sound sarcastic. It was hard.

  “Doesn’t matter. I prefer casual girls.”

  I took a deep breath. “Dean, why are we here?”

  “What do you mean?” He finally looked up from his menu.

  “In the two hours we spent together last night, there wasn’t one thing we agreed on and the evening finished with you telling me I’d have more luck dating if I showed some cleavage. Why did you even want to go out with me again?”

  “Hang on a sec. Waiter?” He waved the menu about to get the boy’s attention. Finally interpreting the signal, the waiter lurched frankensteinishly over to our table.

  “Whaaaaaaaat?”

  “Double cheeseburger, mozzarella melts, home fries, onion rings, chocolate milkshake and a coke.” Dean fired the order off with his eyes closed, like a child memory-whiz on a TV talent show.

  Our waiter replied by grunting enquiringly in my direction.

  “I’ll have the gourmet chicken salad and an orange juice, please.”

  Having prodded at a tablet to take down our order, the waiter staggered back to his hovel behind the counter.

  “This place is just how I remember it.” Dean stared around the restaurant, taking in the soft plastic booths and red and white décor. “Wait, what did you ask me?”

  “I asked you what we’re doing here?”

  “Oh, yeah...” He let out a long sigh like he was about to reveal some wise and ancient truth. “Izzy, I’ve been in this game a long time. I’ve got a profile on four apps and two different websites including a Jewish one that I have no right to be on. I normally meet two to three women a month and in my two years trying, do you know how many second dates I’ve had?”