Death Of A Nobody

by Derek Farrell

  Standing in the middle of the room were the couple who were paying for the event. I came out from behind the bar, my hand extended, a look (I hoped) of sorrow and consolation on my face.

  “Smile,” Caz whispered through gritted teeth.

  “It’s a funeral,” I hissed back through my frown.

  “So smile sadly. You look like you’ve got stomach cramps.”

  “You must be Miss Wright,” I held a hand out to a petite blonde in her early twenties. Olivia Wright had her hair styled in a short page-boy bob, was wearing a diaphanous black silk tea-dress with what looked like peacock feather trim, and a pair of high heels with straps that wound around her slim ankles and looked entirely unsuitable for trekking around graveyards.

  In fact, the whole ensemble had the look of “Downton does Mourning,” which was apt as Miss Wright (I’d been reliably informed by the oracle that was Lady Caroline blah blah blah De Montfort) had just inherited an enormous country pile and enough money to pay the gas bill for the greater London region for the next decade.

  “Livvy, please,” she smiled at me (not sadly, I noted; though if I’d just come into more money than God, I, too, might find it hard to summon up some tragedy) and shook my hand. “Thanks for this,” she gestured around her, “It looks… lovely,” she finished, in tones that suggested if it had been left to her, the wake would have been somewhere that had been decorated since the turn of the twentieth century.

  “You’re very welcome,” I gushed. “I think we’ve covered everything, but if there’s anything you need, please don’t hesitate to ask.”

  “Well, you can tell the Chinese to go fuck themselves,” the man at her side said, and it was a few moments before I realised he was talking to his mobile phone. “The deal was for two hundred thousand units. They start fucking me ‘round with the pricing, I will go to India. Listen, Malcolm, I Gotta go. We’re at my fiancées grandma’s funeral. Yeah, tonight. Thanks.” He ended the call, slipped the phone into his pocket, pecked Olivia Wright on the cheek, and turned to me.

  I introduced myself, and repeated my bit about them not hesitating to ask for anything they wanted.

  “A beer would be a good start,” he said, in a broad American accent, as he, seemingly seeing the place for the first time, cast a shocked glance around the joint. “Christ, Livvy. Maggie came from this?”.

  At that point, Caz appeared at my side, designated herself as ‘Mr Bird’s event coordinator,’ and shook hands all around

  Olivia Wright introduced the man “This is my fiancé Kent Benson.”

  “Mr Benson is American,” I offered, hearing myself stating the blindingly obvious, and willing myself to shut up.

  “The accent give me away?” he asked with a twinkle.

  I shrugged, allowing – since the grieving relatives were clearly loosening up – a smile to cross my own face. “It’s sort of unmistakeable,” I answered, realising that the permatan, fashionably cut salt and pepper haircut and the fact that he was wearing what looked like the Ralph Lauren Mourning in The Hamptons collection all provided strong clues of their own. The fact that there appeared to be at least a twenty year age gap between his fiancée and him left me unfazed. Chac’un a son gout, as they say.

  I gestured to Ali, and a bottle of beer was duly removed from an ice bucket, opened, and delivered on a platter alongside a tall, chilled glass.

  Benson ignored the glass, lifting the bottle and slugging straight from the long neck. “You OK, honey?” He asked, laconically putting an arm around Olivia Wright, and pulling her closer to him.

  She nestled into him, and sighed. “I’m going to miss her.”

  “I’m so sorry,” I said, “For your loss.”

  “This, ”Caz oozed sincerity, “Must be very hard for you.”

  Olivia Wright shrugged, “Maggie had been ill for some time, but I suppose you’re never really prepared, no matter how much advance notice you get.”

  “That’s true,” Kent murmured, rubbing his hand up and down the small of her back, “Very true.”

  “Livvy,” another mourner, dressed, like Kent in a black suit and white shirt, approached, threw his arms around Olivia Wright, and hugged her. “So very sorry, old thing; so very sorry.” He snagged a glass of Champagne from one of the passing Himbos, then went back to hugging Olivia, who, after a moment of confusion, patted him sympathetically but firmly on the shoulder.

  “Thanks Desmond,” she said, as the man, finally getting the hint, released her and turned to Kent.

  Olivia, noting that Caz and I were still there, introduced this new comer to us as Desmond Everett, an old family friend, and I got a look at his face for the first time.

  Where Kent Benson spoke of the virility and frontier spirit of America, this one spoke very quietly, and, I expected, with a great deal of apology, of the English public school system at its worst. He had a chin, but it was so recessive as to be virtually an Adams apple. His eyes – red rimmed and watery – blinked from behind a pair of round horn rim frames, and his hair was a floppy dark rag that had been simply dumped onto his head. All told, unless his family owned huge chunks of the Home Counties, the honourable Desmond Everett was not exactly what you’d call a catch.

  He was accompanied by a vision in purple. Where Everett had exuded a doughy weakness, this woman – stooped and bulky as she was – exuded all the solidity and unyielding bulk of a garden shed.

  The shed was clad in a floor length skirt and matching knee length jacket in a dark purple velvet. When she moved, the jacket wafted, displaying the inner lining of silk in the same purple colour.

  If Prince had had a scary arthritic white auntie, I could imagine her looking like this one.

  Her hair was a crazed birds nest of various browns, dumped on top of a face which appeared to be a stranger to foundation, let alone to lipstick, and a single caterpillar unibrow hulked menacingly over two beady little eyes that surveyed me quickly and then turned to Olivia Wright.

  “Olivia,” her voice was deep, quiet, in keeping with the body language that made her seem as though she just wanted to curl into herself, “how are you holding up?”

  “Oh Jane,” Olivia opened her arms, and the shed shuffled forward into the hug. Olivia Wright’s arms barely made it round the shoulders. “I’m going to miss her.”

  “Well everything has a time,” Jane – who was quickly introduced to us as Jane Barton, a great friend of mine, stepped away, holding both Olivia’s hands in hers. “And this shall pass too.”

  Mention of the word pass reminded me that Caz and I should be back in the kitchen. As I made to excuse myself, Caz suddenly gasped, grasped my arm, and nodded at a couple who had just entered the bar.

  The man was tall, thin, had a shock of well-groomed hair and a surgically trimmed goatee beard, both the beard and the hair being snow white. He, too, wore the regulation black suit, white shirt and black tie, though he’d accompanied the ensemble with a pair of black hornrimmed glasses, which gave him the air of a somewhat morose Colonel Sanders on a day out to the local crem.

  At his side was a younger woman, who had chosen, for the day, a more tailored version of the obviously expensive suit and trousers that her companion had worn. Her hair – cut short and boyish – was slicked back so that she looked for all the world like she’d just stepped out of an amateur production of Victor Victoria.

  “Do you know who that is?” Caz hissed excitedly in my ear.

  I shrugged “Is he finger lickin’ good?” I asked.

  “Not him, you fool,” she whispered, gripping my arm so as to keep me where I was. “Her. That’s Monica Vale.”

  “The artist?” I asked, my heart rate picking up, as thoughts of what would happen if London’s favourite conceptual artist were to big up The Marq.

  “The very same. I told you this would be worth doing.”

  At this point, Colonel Sanders approached, offered his condolences, had his hand shook, snagged a couple of glasses of champagne, offered one to his companion,
and both of them retired to the bar without so much as a glance our way.

  “What do we do?” I asked, desperately wanting to be introduced to, and have the opportunity of impressing, Monica Vale.

  “Well you,” said Caz, patting me on the rump, “Get back to the kitchen to churn out some more fabulous canapes and I,” she added as I shook myself out of my reverie, and, nodding at Olivia Wright, made to head back to the kitchen, “Shall hang out there to open the conversation with her, and to make sure that none of the staff have a knock down punch up in her presence.”

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  “Well? How did it go?” I slid another wafer thin slice of panko crusted chicken into the pan and looked up as Caz wafted back into the room.

  She smiled as she spotted Mike Green, pint of milk in hand, still hovering around. “No dice right now,” Caz answered, “I’m sure we’ll get some time later. But right now, Monica Vale and her granddad are ensconced at the bar and do not appear to be welcoming intrusions.”

  “Monica Vale?” Mike asked. “The Monica Vale?”

  “The very same,” Caz answered, almost glowing with pride. “If we can get her to spread the word, we’ll have the art set queuing up to get in here.” She lifted a ladle, dunked it into the punch bowl, scooped out a measure of the dingy looking liquid and sipped it.

  “Hmm,” she paused, considering, then held the ladle towards Green “It needs something. What do you think?”

  Green sipped, gasped, gagged, and, eyes bulging, commenced a coughing fit. “Less alcohol would be a start. Isn’t a punch supposed to be mostly fruit juice.”

  “Nonsense,” Caz corrected him. “It’s all about the alcohol and the garnishes.

  So saying, she dumped half a bag of ice into the bowl, lobbed a handful of raspberries, one of sliced peaches and a small jar of pickled lemon slices into the mix, retasted, sighed happily, and placed a tea towel over the bowl. “Perfect!” She opined, as she wheeled the bowl into the hallway out of the hot kitchen.

  “Now, Mr Green,” she turned to Mike with the look that a lion might give to a particularly tasty looking antelope, “You have your milk. Is there,” and at this point, I swear, her cleavage actually shifted itself upwards and outwards, “Anything else we can get for you?”

  “Oh,” Green, giving her the look that I expect the tasty antelope might give to the stalking lioness, snapped himself into the present, “No, No, thanks, really. I actually just,” he walked over to me, leaning in so that no doubt was left that his words were meant only for my ears.

  “Listen,” he said, “I can see you are up to your ears right now, but would be good to see you some time if you’re free. You know: get a feel for the neighbourhood.”

  I stopped what I was doing. There’d been an odd stress on the word feel. Was he chatting me up? It felt like it, but maybe I was mistaken. He was, after all, genuinely new to the neighbourhood, and maybe he was just looking for a friend.

  Mind you, if that were the case, why wouldn’t he have taken Caz up on her obvious offer of friendship-and-a-bit-more?

  My jaw dropped as the penny did likewise. He liked me.

  But I already had a boyfriend.

  Then I remembered the texts. Something’s come up. You free tomorrow? I’d been here before – put my life on hold for a man who wasn’t that bothered. And it had left me with next to nothing.

  I smiled at Mike. “Well I’m here,” I said, “most of the time.”

  “Good.” He smiled. “Then I’ll know where to find you,” and, patting me – fraternally? Hopefully? – on the shoulder, he left, nodding his farewells to Caz, who stood, mouth open, in a look that could only be described as the lioness after a plumber from Wisconsin smacks her with a .45 right between the eyes.

  As Mike left, Ali barrelled into the kitchen. “We have a problem,” she announced with – I was sure – a hint of joy in her voice.

  “We usually do. Does it involve a corpse?”

  “No.”

  “Good, then we’re ahead of our batting average.” I turned the chicken. “So, spill: What’s up?”

  “Someone’s bunged up the loos. Ladies Gents and the Disabled. All three of ‘em look like they’ve had a bag of cement dropped down them.”

  “Shit.”

  “Or not,” said Caz, “As the case may be. Did that,” she nodded at the doorway through which Mike Green had exited “Really just happen.”

  “Looks like it,” I grinned back, turning to Ali “Put an out of order sign up,” I said.

  “And where do that lot go?” She jerked a thumb behind her in the general direction of the public bar.

  “They’ll have to be allowed to come through the bar and use the one back here,” I said.

  Ali stiffened. “Punters do not use the staff loos,” she intoned in exactly the voice that Jeeves might have used if he’d been a South London bar keep with a crew cut.

  “Well they do tonight, Ali, unless you want them weeing in the street outside.”

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  “Wonderful canapes,” Monica Vale snatched another mini roast beef and horseradish stuffed Yorkshire pudding from Filip’s tray, stuffed it into her mouth, and – I swear – swallowed without chewing. It was – not that I was counting – the fifth she’d swallowed whole since we’d started chatting.

  “But tell me more about the murder. Was it as grizzly as it sounded in the papers?”

  “Worse,” Caz jumped in. “So much was never reported, and was then excluded when the thing got to court. It’s a miracle Daniel is still here, let alone quickly becoming South London’s hottest gourmet brasserie chef.”

  I shot her a look. We’d discussed this; cook I could tolerate. Gastropub cook was pushing it, but we could go with it. But Gourmet Brasserie?

  I looked around the Public Bar. How many Gourmet Brasseries had customer loos that looked like a set from “Junior Jack: The Ripper’s early years,” a barmaid that looked like she might have trained in Backstreet School with Vera Drake, and a carpet that – despite several cleans – still kicked back the distinct odour of nicotine gin and regret that, if we’d been able to bottle it, would have been on sale behind the bar as Eau du Marq?

  I doubted that Les Deux Magots had ever retailed snide cider from behind it’s hallowed bar. I didn’t want Caz going hyper on the place. I wanted it to be seen for the up and coming local boozer that it was – or at least that I saw it as; because even I had to admit that ‘Filthy backstreet hovel with dodgy cider and some nice canapes’ wasn’t a particularly viable sales pitch.

  But Caz was already in full flow, and there was no way to stop her.

  In fact – thanks to the champagne she’d been knocking back – she became even more voluble in her description of the murder that had occurred shortly after I’d become the pub’s manager.

  As a result. a number of the other guests ambled over, drawn by her description of a scenario that read like a cross between The Silence of The Lambs, Psycho, and My Fair Lady as directed by Guy Ritchie and featuring myself, my loyal and brave best friend, and a psychotic serial killer.

  The truth, I wanted to say, had been far more prosaic, and far less cinematic. But I couldn’t get the chance to.

  “Of course,” Olivia Wright, clearly, herself, a couple of bottles in, cried out. “The Lyra day killings! They were here? Oh how fascinating. And you,” here, she beamed at me, stroking my shirt sleeve in a somewhat proprietorial way, “figured it all out. I followed it avidly. How clever of you.”

  I made some noises about how it had all been more through luck than judgement, but Caz shushed me with a wave of her hand “He’s too modest, but between the sleuthing and the food – which I’m sure you’ll agree is delicious – well, I wonder sometimes if there’s anything our little Danny can’t turn his hand to.”

  “Pouring a pint, according to Ali,” Dash whispered in my ear as he appeared behind me. “D’you want that punch brought out now? Only I think it’s beginning to burn through the crystal…�
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  I jumped. “Yes, of course. Can you get Dave to wheel it out?” I turned to Olivia Wright, murmuring “Miss Wright: do you want the punch brought out now?”

  “God, yes,” she gasped, “I’d almost forgotten about it. Everyone,” she raised her voice, “Grandmamma loved a party, and she was never happier than when she was surrounded by her loved ones, all drinking her famous punch recipe.”

  Her famous punch recipe? I looked at Caz, who stared back. To the casual observer, she might have appeared calm and relaxed, but I saw the clenching of the jaw, the slow, controlled blink, as the same thought that was going through my head went through hers:

  There was a recipe? I racked my brains back, and remembered a six inch thick pile of papers covered in post-it notes, which I’d flicked through. From it, I’d gathered the requirements for a buffet, the timings, the preference for silver service, the whole Punch must be served from the antique monstrosity that will be delivered by white van the day before the funeral.

  At no point had I seen the words Grandmamma’s special punch recipe.

  And so, instead of Maggie’s special punch recipe – made, as her surviving relative was informing the gathering – with pineapple juice, rum, a scraping of nutmeg, some cranberry juice, a splash of brandy, a pinch of cinnamon and a good old glug of champagne, and which had been consumed since the fucking Restoration, for all I knew, as her guests danced the Gay Gordon around it, I had just watched Caz constructing something that might have been served on a blasted heath as three toothless hags danced the Time Warp around it.

  We’re Fucked, I telepathically messaged Caz, who, jaw still locked tight, stared, with horror, over my shoulder, as Dave Walker appeared, straight backed and pushing the trolley as though it were a pram containing Rosemary’s baby.

  To make matters worse, Walker had found – God knows where – an enormous silver cloche, which covered the entire bowl, making it look as though he were about to theatrically expose a concoction of delights rather than the monstrous melange that Caz had manically dumped into the Baccarat.