Claire's Candles Mystery 03 - Coconut Milk Casualty

by Agatha Frost

  “Claire, I—”

  “Don’t,” she said, a faint whiff of hysteria in the back of her voice. “Don’t say anything.” She clenched her eyes and looked up at the ceiling, tears clouding her vision. “How could you do this to us? You’ve broken our family.”

  “Claire, I know, I—”

  “I said, don’t.” Her voice came out louder than she expected, prompting a few shushes from the watching guards. “I’m sorry. I wasn’t sure how I would react to seeing you. Now I know.”

  “I’ve seen worse,” he replied, his smile familiar and strangely comforting. “Thanks for coming. I’ve missed you.”

  Claire wiped her tears and rolled her eyes, still unable to make sustained eye contact. He looked too much like her father, and visiting him was as close to betraying him as she’d ever got.

  “I thought I might see you at the trial,” he said after a period of silence.

  “We stayed as far away as we could,” she said, roughly dashing away more tears with the back of her hand as she caught her breath. “Not that it mattered. It was still plastered all over the front page of the Northash Observer for everyone to see. Mum ran around the village trying to buy up every copy, but there’s no putting what you did back in a box. We have to live with it. I have to look Graham in the eye almost every day knowing what you did – actually, no – he has to look me in the eye knowing my uncle murdered his wife.”

  Claire stopped talking; her volume was rising again. She took a calming breath and remembered Em’s advice about listening. She clasped her hands together and looked at Pat; his expression echoed the horror she felt.

  “I know,” he said, his bottom lip wobbling. “I know what I did. I killed two people. I live with that every day. I know I get it easy being in here, and I’m sorry for that. I really am, Claire. But I can’t change what I did. It’s done.” He paused and looked down at his own clasped hands. “I’ve had a lot of time to reflect. I was so angry about Nicola’s indifference to Bilal’s death. I wasn’t thinking straight. She was just so dismissive! She didn’t care that her lax safety checks allowed him to fall into that vat of wax at the factory. And I had to see his father, Abdul, day in day out, hurting from what she did.” He frowned and inhaled on a pained hiss. “That being said, she didn’t deserve to die. Neither did Jeff. I know I deserve to be here. I just hoped my family would come and see me. I have no one, Claire. No one.”

  “You did it to yourself.” The tears she wiped away now were ones of anger. “Well, your little plan worked. I got the hint. I’m here.”

  “I didn’t know what to do,” he said in a low, pleading voice. “I thought if I kept sending letters, I’d—”

  “I’m not talking about the letters!” she cried. Another chorus of shushing followed. “I’m talking about the spray paint. Congratulations? Hardly subtle.”

  “W-wha – Claire, I – Congratulations?”

  “The paint,” she repeated, forcing her tone to flatten. “All over the front of my shop the day before opening. I know it was you. I followed the breadcrumbs back to Nick.”

  “What paint?” he asked, shaking his head. “What shop? What opening?”

  “My shop,” she said. “My candle shop.”

  “You finally opened your dream candle shop?” He lifted his hand up to his face. “Claire, I-I’m so proud of you.”

  Claire stared open-mouthed at her uncle, unsure if she should laugh or cry. Just when she was wondering if she should believe him, she remembered how easily he’d lied about murder right up until he couldn’t hide it anymore. Em’s advice about not having to believe him pushed to the forefront of her mind. When she closed her eyes, she saw Nick’s lifeless body as if she were standing in front of it all over again.

  “Someone vandalised my shop,” she said, slowly and carefully. “Ryan showed me video footage of Nick with spray paint, and then we went to his house and found him dead.”

  “What?” Pat cried, earning a few shushes of his own. “Nick’s dead?”

  “No one told you?”

  “Claire, I meant it when I said I have no one.” Tears lined his eyes, and he frowned at the floor as they fell. “How-how did he die?”

  “He hanged himself.”

  “No, he can’t have.” Pat’s eyes clenched shut. “He wouldn’t. He couldn’t. I knew him better than anyone. His mother committed suicide when he was a teenager. It sent him off the rails. It broke him. He insisted he’d never do that to people – to his brother – no matter how desperate things were. He understood too deeply how that kind of loss rippled through the lives of those left behind. Nick wouldn’t have taken his life. It wasn’t in his character.”

  “How well do we ever know anyone?” Claire asked, her gaze fixed firmly on her uncle. “I-I think this was a mistake.”

  Claire went to pull away from the table, to leave, but Pat dove across and grabbed her hands. One of the guards swooped in and pulled him back, sternly reminding him about the no touching rule. Claire motioned that she was okay and resettled into the seat, albeit at a slight angle towards the exit, ready to move at a moment’s notice.

  “Ste thinks his brother was murdered,” she said, chewing the inside of her cheek. “Would you know anything about that?”

  “Are you suggesting I had Nick killed from the inside?” Pat laughed away the suggestion. “Claire, I’m still me. I made a lot of mistakes in the heat of the moment, but I’m the same person I always was.”

  “No.” She shook her head. “You’re not. Because the uncle I thought I knew would never have resorted to murder.”

  “We all have it in us,” he said, eyelashes trembling above his unblinking gaze. “The darkness. In a moment of weakness, I let the monster in. We can all pretend it’s not there, but it is. Every one of us is a single decision away from ruining our lives at every moment. I just – I wish I hadn’t taken yours – the family’s – down with mine. I knew it would be awful for you, but I didn’t realise how bad.”

  “Aren’t you going to ask about him?”

  “Your father, I presume?” He smiled sourly down at the desk. “I don’t need to. I know what this did to him. What I did to him, my big brother. I haven’t been able to bring myself to write to him, but I—”

  “Don’t.”

  “Claire, I—”

  “And stop writing to me too.” She stood, attracting the attention of those around her. “You did this to yourself, Pat. Nobody held your hand when you pushed Nicola to her death. Deal with it, just like we are.”

  He nodded as though he understood. “Will you visit again?”

  Claire couldn’t think of an answer, so she said nothing as she stared down at him, unable to sit but also unable to leave.

  “It was nice seeing you,” he said, eyes back on the table, “you might want to ask your gran about the casino. It’s the only thing I can think of that might have got Nick into trouble.”

  “What casino?”

  “Just ask her,” he said, his tone withdrawn. “Thanks for coming.”

  Claire didn’t linger in her uncle’s sorrow. She made her way back to the waiting area and the comfort of the air conditioning. After another quick search, she traded in the token for her bag. Back in the reception area, Em was comforting a sobbing elderly woman. Not wanting to interrupt, Claire headed straight outside. Eyes closed, she leaned her head against the red brick and turned her face to the sky. The air was as stuffy as ever, but she managed her first full breath since entering the prison.

  “Poor thing’s first time visiting her son,” Em explained to Claire when she joined her against the wall. “How did it go?”

  Claire opened her eyes and letting out her exhale. “It happened. And I was there. I’ll process it later.”

  “The first visit is always the hardest.”

  “Who says I’m coming back?”

  “You will.” Em wrapped her hand around Claire’s and tugged her in the opposite direction of the bus stop. “I already used the payphone inside to ca
ll Sally, and she’s happy to watch the shop. I told her you were having a filling at the dentist, so maybe clutch your cheek when you go back.”

  “Thank you.”

  “Come on,” Em suggested, linking arms with Claire as they set off in the shadow of the tall prison walls. “It would be rude to come all this way and not have a drink. I know a place.”

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  “T he X41 should be here soon,” Em said as she gulped down the last of the water she’d ordered. “Let’s make a move.”

  Claire slurped to the bottom of her raspberry vodka and lemonade. After the surreal prison visit, she couldn’t have ordered anything weaker than vodka; it took a stiff drink to bring her back down. Besides, the party had already started in the pub. It would have been rude to order something straightforward as a pint of lager, and she’d never seen raspberry vodka before.

  “You’d never think it was the middle of the afternoon,” Claire called over the music as she slid off the high stool next to a flashing gambling machine. “It’s a shame I have a shop to get back to. Getting day drunk right now seems appropriate.”

  “That’s Canal Street for you,” Em said with a chuckle, directing Claire to the door. “The stop’s just around the corner.”

  The sun blinded Claire as she walked out of the dark disco lights and into the bright afternoon. The crystal-blue sky made a mockery of the storm warning, but the sticky air had only thickened. Barely clothed people wearing sunglasses filled the outdoor tables between the row of pubs and bars and the canal, squeezing in the only chance they’d had to sunbathe all week.

  “Almost feels a shame to rush off,” Claire said as she followed Em down a back street under a canopy of rainbow bunting. “Who knows how long it’ll be until we get another dry patch.”

  “All storms end,” Em mused as they turned into a dark, cobbled alley between two tall rows of pubs. “Even the terrible ones.”

  Claire stayed right on Em’s heels as she took more twists and turns around corner after corner. Em seemed to know the city streets like the back of her hand, only emphasising how poorly Claire knew it despite countless visits over the years. She didn’t recognise anything until they reached a red bus stop across from a multi-story carpark; she’d waited there with Sally after enough shopping trips as teenagers to find it familiar.

  “I think that’s ours,” Em said, picking up the pace as the bus door shuddered shut. “Wait for us!”

  Side by side, they ran down the long street towards the bus. They reached the red stop just as the double-decker pulled away from the kerb. The unsmiling faces of the passengers stared down at them, and not one called for the driver to stop. Hands in her short hair, Claire watched the bus drive away and turn past the large carpark.

  “I don’t suppose the buses are more regular these days?” Claire asked as she attempted to study the timetable. “They were a nightmare when I was a kid. I can’t tell you how many times Sally and I lingered here for hours.”

  “Oh, they’re more regular,” Em said, tracing her finger along the X41 line. “Just not the ones going through Northash.” She stabbed her finger on the plastic. “Looks like it’s going to be a two-hour wait until the next. We could catch the X40 as far as Clitheroe and hire a taxi from there?”

  “I’m feeling rich at the moment thanks to the success of opening morning.” Claire pulled her phone from her pocket and opened the new Northash Taxi app a recent flyer had instructed her to download. A couple of taps later, she said, “Done. Says it will be here in forty minutes. I’m sure we can kill time until then.”

  “There is no killing time,” Em said, looping her arm through Claire’s and setting off down the road, “only life to live. C’mon, I know another place.”

  The place turned out to be Afflecks, a four-storey Victorian shopping emporium dedicated to the weird and wonderful. Against a backdrop of walls covered in art and graffiti (much nicer than the stuff her shop had experienced), they wandered from small vintage clothes shops to record shops to shops filled with crystals. There were also a significant number of places to get piercings and tattoos, as well as plenty of eateries. Em seemed to know everyone, and everyone seemed to know Em – especially the tattoo artists. Three separate shop owners waved Em in to check up on their work on her fully inked body, and Em introduced Claire to them all. By the time the app notified her of the driver’s close proximity, Claire had bought six different candles from three different boutique shops and a few bath bombs. They’d even had a cup of tea in a café on the top floor.

  Bag of goodies in hand, Claire followed Em back to the red bus stop with lifted spirits; being in Em’s company tended to do that. When the Northash Taxi car rolled around the corner, and she saw the driver, the reason she’d needed her spirits lifting in the first place slammed home.

  “Isn’t it a bit soon?” Claire asked as Ste pulled up next to them on the kerb.

  “This is just Ste’s way,” Em said, waving to her old friend. “He always keeps going.”

  Em took the front seat, leaving Claire to climb into the back. Ste, a large, bald man in a baggy polo shirt, smiled and nodded his recognition in the rear-view mirror. Claire returned the smile. He immediately looked away, and, too late, she realised her lips had formed the same tight, sympathetic smile she’d so hated seeing after her uncle’s arrest. Ste set off before either of them had a chance to fasten their seatbelts.

  “Ramsbottom rang me on my drive over,” he said flatly, leaning across the steering wheel to look up and down either side of a busy city junction. “I knew it wasn’t suicide, Em. I told you it wouldn’t be. Not after our mum. He wouldn’t.” Ste indicated left, and then immediately changed his mind and shot across the road, indicating right before squeezing into a full line of traffic – the bus he cut off blared its horn. “What’re those people called who look at bodies to figure it out?”

  “Pathologists,” Em replied.

  “That’s them.” He glanced in the rear-view mirror at the traffic behind Claire before relaxing into the jam he’d just crammed them into. “Ramsbottom said something about the rope marks on his neck not being consistent with hanging. He wouldn’t say what they were consistent with, but it doesn’t take a genius to figure it out, does it? Someone’s gone and strangled the poor fella.”

  The humid city rushed noisily around them as they crawled forward, but in the close confines of the taxi, Claire could have heard a pin drop. The revelation hung uncomfortably in the air as they all wrestled with the idea of anyone using suicide to frame a murder. Em reached across the gear stick and rested her hand on Ste’s. He clenched the steering wheel and sniffled as if crying; Claire didn’t look in the mirror to confirm it.

  “He wasn’t perfect. I know it better than anyone,” Ste said as he turned at the next corner, breaking free of one stream of traffic only to tack onto the back of another. “I tried my best in raising him, but I was only a teenager myself when Mum died. It was hard keeping him out of trouble. Every time I thought he was on the straight and narrow, he’d come running to me for help. It was always about money, and I always tried to help. I should have known he was in trouble when he came begging for twelve grand.”

  “Twelve thousand pounds?” Em echoed the sum. “Ste, you never said it was that much.”

  “I could only get him five,” he replied with a sigh. “He promised I’d have it back immediately, but that was his usual line. I wasn’t expecting it back overnight, but I suppose it’s as good as gone now.”

  “What would he need that kind of money for?” Em asked.

  “Knowing my brother,” Ste said, finally turning into a clear road, “I’d say gambling debts.”

  Claire barely knew Ste and hesitated a moment before giving in to the temptation.

  “Speaking of gambling,” asked Claire, edging forward in the middle seat to join the conversation. “Do you know if Nick frequented any casinos?”

  “Casinos?” Ste grunted a laugh. “Nick? Not unless you call the local boo
kies a casino, no. Dogs or horses, it didn’t matter to him. Betting on the races kept the man skint for most of his life.” He glanced at her in the rear-view. “Why’d you ask?”

  “Something my uncle said.”

  “You’ve just gone to see Pat?” Ste let out another forced laugh with a slight headshake. “Still can’t believe what he did, but that’s life, isn’t it? As much as we want people to be good, it means nothing when the chips are down. How’s prison treating him?”

  “As you’d expect,” was all she could manage. “Did Nick ever visit him?”

  “Never mentioned it.”

  They left the city and eventually merged onto the M66 motorway back to Northash. They remained in silence until the taxi pulled up in the village square directly outside Claire’s Candles.

  “I don’t know if it would be considered a casino,” Ste said, yanking the handbrake before turning as much as he could in his seat, “but I just had a thought. Around the time your uncle went to prison, Nick asked me to join a card ring he’d set up. Wanted me to invest in it – typical Nick, cheeky enough to ask. I keep on the straight and narrow, but I went along just the once.” He looked around as if fearing someone might be listening in. “It was all pretty low stakes. A couple of quid here and there. I was surprised by the number of people.”

  “Who?” Claire asked, on the edge of her seat.

  “Gwyneth,” he said, nodding at Lilac Gifts. “They were together at the time, I think. Malcolm and Theresa from the pub, Eugene from the café. Agnes and Jeanie from the B&B were there too. Couple of faces I couldn’t put names to, but the cellar was pretty packed out.”

  “Don’t tell me.” Claire inhaled deeply and exhaled in a rush. “My uncle’s cellar?”