Claire's Candles Mystery 03 - Coconut Milk Casualty

by Agatha Frost

  They walked down the brightly lit tiled corridor to the large bathrooms. The bathroom itself was empty, although one of the cubicles was occupied. From the loud vomiting, she doubted either of the two sets of high-heeled feet under the door belonged to Agnes. She left the bathroom and went back into the corridor. Ryan wasn’t there, but a young, scrawny, bespectacled man was leaning against the wall like his life depended on it. He squinted at Claire, his neck bopping this way and that.

  “What’re you studying?” he asked.

  “I’m not a student,” she replied, unable to hold in her laughter. “I’m flattered, though.”

  He squinted again, his bending and wobbly knees snapping back to attention one at a time. If her mother saw such a sight, she’d have declared the boy a menace and a drunk, but Claire had been there many times, usually with Sally.

  “You don’t look old,” he said. “Where’re you going after here?”

  Claire chuckled. She’d heard that chat-up line in nightclubs before, but never outside the toilets in a train station.

  “I think I’m technically old enough to be your mother,” she said, before doing the mental calculation and adding, “just.”

  “Nah,” he said, staggering side to side, his finger extended. “You’re my age. I can tell.”

  The ladies’ bathroom door opened, and the two girls from the cubicle came out. One was struggling to walk; at least the other appeared sober enough to look after her. Claire had been both of those girls, although she hadn’t been the one with mascara-streaks down her cheeks for a long while.

  “Mikey!” the drunker of the two girls cried to the skinny lad, falling into him, and then using him to prop herself up. “Who’s your friend?”

  The other girl smiled her apologies at Claire, clearly embarrassed by the drunkenness of her friends. They couldn’t have been twenty yet, but from the stories Sally told about university life, they weren’t doing anything too out of the ordinary.

  “She reckons she’s old enough to be my mum,” Mikey said.

  The drunk girl squinted at Claire and said, “Nah. My mum’s well older than that. You want to come to a house party?”

  Ryan came out of the men’s bathroom, shaking water off his hands. He stopped in his tracks when he saw the teenagers talking to Claire.

  “Apparently, I’m passing for a teenager these days and being invited to parties.” Claire winked at Ryan. “You took your time.”

  “Needed to go.”

  “Is this your boyfriend?” the drunk girl slurred. “He’s well fit. Mikey, you should join the gym.”

  “C’mon,” Claire said, nodding towards the opening of the corridor back into the station, “let’s keep looking for her.”

  “Who you looking for?” the drunk girl asked, staggering as she tried to focus on Claire and indirectly blocking the entrance. “We lost our friends too. Three of them. Dunno where they went.”

  “Not a friend,” Claire said, moving the girl politely to one side, “but if you see someone who looks like they’d murder you with a knitting needle, do come and find me.”

  With the girl out of the way, Claire hurried down the corridor and back onto the platform. A rowdy group of lads in polo shirts and tight jeans roared into the train hall, jumping around and chanting like they’d just come from a football match.

  “Sometimes I don’t feel grown-up,” Claire said, scanning the platform in the opposite direction for any sign of Agnes, “and then I spend two minutes with actual teenagers and realise how much of an adult I am.”

  “At least you’re not going to have to relive it,” he said. “Hugo I’m not so worried about, but can you imagine Amelia at their age? I don’t think I’ll ever be ready.”

  As Claire turned in the direction of the underground walkway, a finger tapped meekly on her shoulder. She turned, surprised to see the only of the trio who wasn’t blind drunk. Mikey and the girl were snogging against the tiles; Claire hoped she’d brushed her teeth, somehow.

  “Were you joking about the woman?” the girl asked, wrapping her arms around herself. “Only because I saw one waiting on the train and she was knitting.”

  “No, I’m not joking,” Claire said seriously. “Which train?”

  “Blackpool North.”

  Claire turned and looked at the train on Platform 4 to the right side of the station. She’d scanned the windows on her search, and she hadn’t seen Agnes. She couldn’t see her now, either, and was about to accept defeat when she spotted the rectangle gaps on either side of the carriage where more windows could fit.

  A deeply buried memory pushed its way to the surface.

  “Let’s get a closer look.”

  With Ryan by her side, they jogged down the platform to the opening of the underground walkways. An ornate red and green railing guided them down below the station. The lower corridors, with their bare white walls and too bright lighting, were a stark contrast to the station above. As they’d done in the square earlier, they set off on a pace that began as a walk and soon increased to a jog. By the time they were at the top of the staircase on the other side of the tracks, they were running.

  And there Agnes was.

  Alone in an empty carriage.

  In the only seat without a window.

  Claire had been on the Blackpool North train many times in her life, but she must have been nine or ten in the memory that had sprung forward. They’d all gone as a family, changing at Preston station to get as close to Northash as they could. Exhausted from a fun day at the seaside, all Claire had wanted to do was rest her head against the window and watch the English countryside whiz by. When she’d sat down, she’d been devastated to see a plastic panel with no window. Without even needing to ask, Uncle Pat swapped seats with her, and she got her wish. However, she was sure she’d fallen asleep within minutes of the train setting off anyway.

  “She really is knitting,” Ryan said with a disbelieving laugh. “What do we do?”

  Claire set off without giving it a second thought. When she hadn’t been worrying about Ste’s driving, she’d been thinking about what she’d say to Agnes if they found her. Now that Agnes was in her sights, lumpy long brown knitting creation and all, every word left Claire’s mind. Still, she marched onto the bright train and took the seat opposite Agnes.

  “I see my sister really doesn’t have a shred of loyalty in her body,” Agnes said bitterly, her fingers forcefully twisting the wool around the needles. “Of all the people, why did it have to be you?”

  Agnes glared at Claire with hatred she was all too familiar with. Claire had seen the same hatred in Agnes’ eyes every time she’d vocally opposed Claire’s desire to rip out the old tearoom. She hadn’t been the only one, but Agnes had been the ringleader.

  “And here I was thinking things were okay between us,” Claire said as sarcastically as she could. “I know what you did.”

  “No? You don’t say,” Agnes fired back, her tone matching Claire’s as she shifted the wool creation to the opposite needle to start a fresh row. “And here I thought you were off on a little holiday to Blackpool at midnight. I suppose you want to know why?”

  “I already know why,” she replied quickly. “Took me a while to figure it out, I’ll admit that, but I got there in the end. Did you want the money so badly?”

  “They promised to triple it.” The needles continued to work. “Quadruple it. And they did. They kept doing it. Every time, they gave me more money than I gave them, so I went all in.” Her lip curled. “Joey promised the money was as good as mine. All I had to do was trust them. He might have hated the man, but he believed in Nick’s magical gambling powers. I believed it too.”

  “When something sounds too good to be true,” Claire said, “it probably is.”

  “Oh, what do you know?” Agnes forced a laugh, her needles stilling. She stared Claire dead in the eyes. “When people like you fall on your backsides, you have your lovely middle-class parents to pick you up. My parents are dead, and I’m glad of
it. Nothing in this life was handed to me. Everything I have, I laboured for. That B&B, we struggled for it, and look how it treated us. Where did the guests go?” She jabbed at her knitting, even more aggressively; the needles started to sound like fencing blades, a little. “To the chain hotels! And we had to count on him,” she said, pausing to nod at Ryan in the train’s doorway, “and his horrible brats to keep the roof over our head? Jeanie wasn’t going to fix it, so I had to. Nick taking over that club finally gave me the chance. My dad always said, ‘Gamble big, or don’t bother.’ Nick won us twelve thousand pounds! Four grand each! But it wasn’t enough, so we went all in again. Nick swore he’d make us even more.”

  “And he lost it.”

  “Every damn penny,” she said through gritted teeth. “I gave him a day to make it back. Borrowed money off his brother, and what did the idiot do? Lost it all. He could have given me that money, but he—”

  “Didn’t owe it to you,” Claire cut in. “It’s called gambling for a reason.”

  “He promised,” Agnes growled. “They promised. Joey was a lawyer! I trusted him.” She inhaled deeply. “I went to see Nick, but I knew he wouldn’t have the money. I knew it. That’s why I took the rope. He wasn’t going to get away with it if he couldn’t pay me.”

  “And you strangled him?”

  “Big fella like that, you’d think it would have been difficult,” she said with a sigh. “Didn’t even struggle. It’s like he understood. Maybe he wanted it?”

  “Or maybe he was exhausted from working out in the gym all morning?”

  “Was like popping the head off a dandelion,” Agnes continued, gazing right through Claire. “I didn’t plan past that, though. It was just lucky that Joey had come ‘round to see if Nick won the money back.”

  “That’s what Joey did.” Claire exhaled, sinking deeper into the chair. “He helped frame Nick’s murder as a suicide.”

  “It was his idea,” Agnes said with a dry half-smile. “He made it sound so easy. Took the both of us to get him up on that beam, but we did it. Should have known he didn’t have the stones to handle it. A man who can’t accept that he’s balding never does.” She paused, lowering her knitting, her wicked smile fixed on Claire. “He called and told me that you, of all people, knew what he’d done. I knew you were bluffing. Heard you asking Jeanie. Those old floors are as thin as paper.”

  “If you knew I was bluffing, why did you kill him?”

  “Because he was weak. Spineless. He would have cracked. It was only a matter of time before he told his precious Marilyn.” She rolled her eyes. “I met him at the cottage. He attacked me, but I never go anywhere without my knitting. I was surprised by how easily one of my little needles punctured the skin.”

  “And pushing him down the stairs?”

  “I wanted to make sure I did the job properly,” she said with a shrug. “But I also knew I wouldn’t get away with it this time. Nick, maybe, but killing Joey too would send the police back to the casino. I thought I’d at least have time to make a run for it, and then you turn up out of the blue.” Agnes looked Claire up and down, pursing her lips. “You know, when I heard you were taking over Jane’s Tearoom, I actually thought you’d make a good job of it. I thought ‘fat lass like that will know how to make a good cake.’”

  “I’m only good at eating them,” Claire fired back, not letting her face crack. “You’re a bully, Agnes. I pity you. You’ve clearly been very hurt by someone.”

  A loud fight broke out on the central platform, catching Claire’s attention. Sloppy punches flew as screams of protest came from all directions. From the looks of it, the rowdy group of lads had turned on each other. On the other side of the station, Claire saw Mikey and the two girls hiding behind a vending machine.

  Claire looked back at Agnes just in time for the mad knitter to make a run for the door. She yanked the needle from the wool and brandished it at Ryan. She dove at him but pulled back before she made contact. Ryan jumped back all the same, giving her enough room to dart through the gap. Claire jumped up and chased after her.

  Agnes dashed towards the metal walkway, but Claire was faster. She reached out and tugged on the shoulder of Agnes’ knitted cardigan. Agnes spun and lashed out with the knitting needle like she was an explorer hacking away at untouched jungle. The thin needle struck the side of Claire’s arm, sharp enough to break the skin.

  Claire gasped, but Agnes simply smirked as she glanced down at the bleeding cut. Claire’s hand struck Agnes’ cheek, almost like a reflex, and she gasped again. Agnes laughed and touched her cheek, her smirk growing.

  “So that’s what that feels like to be slapped,” she said, her tongue poking at a small cut in her lip; it must have banged a tooth. “You know, I smelt one of your candles. I don’t know what all the fuss is about.”

  Agnes took the stairs two at a time before rushing across the top of the walkway. Claire watched her run down the stairs on the other side, the knitting needle brandished in her hand.

  “Let me see,” Ryan said, grabbing her arm. “Doesn’t look too deep.”

  “It’s just a scratch. I think I hurt her more than she hurt me.”

  “Good.”

  Em and Ste made their way across the opposite walkway, but Agnes reached the central platform before they did. She glanced at the fight, and Claire could tell she was trying to choose if she should run through the front entrance or down to the underground walkway to slip out the side door. Seemingly choosing the entrance, she turned as six uniformed officers hurried in. Five of them went straight to the group of lads savagely punching and kicking the daylights out of each other, but one officer, a young woman, noticed the old woman brandishing a knitting needle like a weapon. Agnes lunged, but the officer’s training kicked in. Agnes was pressed up against the wall before the knitting needle had time to clatter to the floor.

  “You might want to keep hold of her,” Ste called, rushing down the stairs on the other side. “She murdered my brother!”

  The officer cuffed Agnes, and before long, the old woman was loaded in the back of one of the riot vans with the fighting men. Claire was relieved when the officer claimed to know DI Ramsbottom, although it took Claire gesturing with her finger up to her hair for it to fully click.

  “She confessed to it all,” Claire said when the four of them were in the entrance hall alone. “She didn’t have a shred of remorse. I’m sorry, Ste.”

  “He can rest now,” he said, sniffling back tears as Em rested her head on his shoulder. “It’s over. Let’s go home.”

  Silently, they walked through the front doors as the riot vans drove off. On the floor to the right, Damon leant against the wall. Sally, head and arms tucked up against his lap, was fast asleep. He was stroking her hair, but he stopped when his eyes met Claire’s.

  “She slept through the whole thing,” he said, accepting Claire’s hand up as Ryan guided Sally into the back of the taxi. “What happened to your arm?”

  “A crazy woman with a knitting needle,” she said, forcing back a yawn. “Come on, let’s go home. I’ll explain on the way.”

  With Sally taking up most of the corner, and Damon taking the middle seat, Claire took Ryan’s lap like Sally had with Damon. Ryan wrapped his arms around her and held them together with looped fingers. He didn’t let go until the taxi pulled up outside Sally’s large, detached house.

  Claire helped Sally, still half asleep, into her silent, show-home perfect house. Not wanting to disturb the peace, she guided her friend through to the sitting room and settled her under a fur blanket on the cream leather sofa.

  “I’ve always been jealous of Damon being friends with you,” Sally murmured as Claire tucked her in, “but he’s nice.”

  “I always told you he was.”

  “I forgot men could be nice.” She rolled over into the sofa, pulling the blanket tight around her neck. “Night, Claire.”

  “Night, Sally.”

  Claire kissed her friend on the side of the head. By the time
Claire fetched a glass of water and a bucket from the kitchen, Sally was back to the soft snoring that had been the soundtrack for most of the taxi journey. On her way out, she glanced up the staircase, wondering if Paul, Sally’s husband, had even noticed that his wife had been gone for hours after leaving in her dressing gown.

  With more space back in the taxi, Ryan shuffled into the middle seat, and Claire sandwiched herself next to him. As the taxi slowly drove down the steep Park Lane, Ryan’s fingers wrapped around hers in the gap between them on the backseat.

  Claire didn’t know what it meant, if anything at all, but it did feel nice.

  CHAPTER FIFTEEN

  T he weekend following Agnes’ arrest saw Claire rushed off her feet at the candle shop from opening to closing. Everyone wanted to talk to the woman behind the B&B owner’s unmasking; Claire’s retelling of the events at the train station never failed to have people hanging on her every word.

  Joey’s family held the funeral in a church outside the village. Claire decided not to go, but she attended Nick’s at Trinity Community Church if only to provide moral support for Gwyneth now that they were shop neighbours. Jeanie turned up too, despite the strange looks she knew she’d get. Claire had spoken with her long enough to gather she planned on selling up and moving away. Neither of them mentioned that Jeanie had clearly kept her sister’s murderous ways a secret. The woman had already lost enough. For different reasons, they skipped Nick’s wake.

  By the time Claire opened on Monday morning, with her father by her side, she was down to her last box of coconut milk candles for the ‘Star Candle of the Month’ display. When her mother walked in bang at noon, only two remained on the circular unit in the middle of the shop. Though Claire planned on making more, her mind had already turned to the puzzle of next month’s Star Candle. She wasn’t entirely sure what it would be but knew she wanted something floral.

  “You two should get going now,” Janet instructed, taking her place behind the counter. “They might not let you in if you’re late.”