Death Of A Nobody

by Derek Farrell

  “And then the plot begins to spiral. I’ve heard that word a lot the last few days: The best laid plans, things done for the right reasons, mistakes that lead to bigger mistakes until the end state is worse than it ever needed to be.

  “Sophie – calling herself, now, Jane Barton, meets and befriends a shy English Heiress who’s in the same clinic as herself. This girl has always avoided crowds and cameras, and lives with her aged grandmother in a big old house in the middle of nowhere.

  “You couldn’t, really, imagine a better hideout, if you were a woman who was supposed to be dead.

  “But gradually, of course, another plan started to form in Jane’s mind. The insurance pay-out was a decent chunk of change. But Olivia Wright, after the death of her parents, and on the death of her grandmother, would – provided she lived long enough for her trust fund to pay out – be worth hundreds of millions.

  “Hundreds of millions.” I repeated the phrase, watching as Olivia Wright, her face changing to a look of horror, turned to stare at Kent Benson.

  “Livvy, sweetheart,” Kent beseeched her, as he attempted to push back through the crowd to her side. Nick held him where he was, and Olivia Wright turned her face back to me.

  “Please go on,” she said, her voice barely a whisper.

  “Jane arranged for you to meet Kent – it was a trip that Jane had suggested, a way to cheer herself up after – she claimed – a failed romance. And, on that trip, you meet Kent, who already knows exactly what to say to you, how to behave, how to win your heart. Because, of course, he’s been prepped by Jane Barton, the only friend you have. The friend to whom you’ve disclosed your deepest desires.

  “You said that Kent was almost too good to be true.”

  “And he was,” she finished for me, as James Kane put his arm around her.

  “So the stage was set,” I said, as Caz finished the Veuve, rattled the bottle to confirm it was empty, placed it on a discarded tray, and, dipping into her handbag, retrieved another miniature champagne, miming her surprise and pleasure at me, opened it, inserted the straw, and consumed sipping whilst her eyes scanned the crowd.

  “Kent would woo Olivia, Jane would stay by her side as confidante to make sure the plan stayed on track, the two would marry, and, at some point in the future, Olivia would have a tragic and fatal accident.

  “Except Maggie Wright smelled a rat. She wasn’t keen on the American with the dubious past, and communicated as much to her family solicitor. But before she could act on her suspicions, Maggie Wright died.”

  “It was pneumonia.” James Kane said, “The doctor agreed.”

  I nodded. “Perhaps it was. Or perhaps, if we were to exhume her, we’d discover some poison – something that might, say, be used in tiny amounts by a homeopathic nurse, but which could be distilled down and fed to an old, frail, and already sickly old woman to speed her exit.

  “Either way, Maggie Wright dies, and the only obstruction to stage two of their plan is out of the way. The engagement is announced, and the funeral is held.

  “If Maggie Wright hadn’t been a Southwark girl made good, the funeral and the wake might have been held at the big old house, away from everyone and anyone, and three people would not be dead, but the clock would be ticking on Olivia Wright’s life.

  “My guess, Kent, is that you assumed that, even if you were accused of murdering Olivia, you’d be able to pull the same thing you’d pulled previously – setting up a perfect alibi that drew just enough attention to yourself, but ultimately proved that you couldn’t have committed the murder, while Jane – who few people would be looking at – would actually perform the deed.

  “Hence her Lady Macbeth comment. She was willing manage you, willing to take action where necessary, willing to endure what must have been painful surgery, and years of constant method acting for you.

  “What she was not willing to endure was you having a change of heart. She wasn’t prepared for you actually falling for Olivia Wright. Or, perhaps, for you realising that, if you married Olivia, you’d be able to live in luxury for the rest of your life without killing her: You’d be her husband; you’d control the funds. No need to kill a wife who – once you’d cut the ties with James Kane, Des Everett and any of her other protectors – would be entirely at your mercy.

  “I doubt that Dave Walker would have ever recognised Jane, but when he wheeled the punchbowl out, she recognised him, and his fate was sealed. There was a scream, someone dropped a glass, and at the same moment, Anthony Taylor walked into the pub, so everyone thought those events – the shocked scream, the smashed glass – were connected to his arrival, but they weren't.

  “They were Jane, recognising him, and suddenly realising that if he recognised her, both games would be up.

  “So, Jane called you, pretended to be one of your business contacts, filled you in, and advised you – a repeating pattern here - to get an alibi while she dealt with this situation. She nosed around the kitchen, found a weapon, followed Dave to the loo, and – for her own sake, but maybe mostly for yours – committed murder.

  “Then, later, she realised you were having, if not second thoughts, at least considerations that would make changes to the plan. Changes that she didn’t like. The plan was for Olivia to die, and for you and Jane to skip off into the sunset, not for her to remain in costume forever as you enjoyed a happy and financially enjoyable marriage to Olivia.

  “She still loved you, Kent. I saw her looking at you and Olivia once, assumed her doe-eyed admiration was for her friend. But, of course, it wasn’t. It was for you, the man she loved, the man she’d gone through hell for. And she decided to fight for you.

  “Well,” Kent announced to the whole room, “This is a hell of a story, but I’m not seeing any proof.”

  “You killed Jane Barton,” I said, “because she’d ceased to be of use to you, and because you wanted to change the plans. And because hell hath no fury like a woman scorned, and the scorning of Jane Barton was likely to destroy not only your current plan, but your whole life.

  “Thing is, Kent, once you decided to cut Jane out of the plan, and to silence her permanently, the mess – which had started spiralling the moment Davie Walker wheeled the punchbowl in – went into overdrive.

  “So you pinched a load of Olivia’s tranquillisers, ground them up, went to visit Jane Barton, doped her, and – when she was semi-conscious – hanged her. Then you sent me a text from her phone, scattered the set dressing that would suggest she’d been overcome by remorse at my exposing her as the poison penner, and waited for me to discover the corpse.”

  “Prove it,” he sneered, and I pushed the button one last time.

  On screen, a long and rather boring list of data appeared, accompanied, in the top right hand of the screen, by a dark smudge, and in the bottom right corner of the screen, by a screenprint from my phone of the text that I had received from ‘Jane’.

  The police had provided the smudge, which didn’t really prove a lot, but were still awaiting the data that Ray had, unofficially, acquired for me earlier that day.

  Nick, spotting the screen of data, mouthed “What the Fuck?” then, realising my bluff, turned his attention back to restraining Kent.

  “Your fingerprint,” I said, “Lifted from the handle of the cupboard in Desmond Everett’s flat. You washed up the cups, tried to make it look like he hadn’t had a visitor. I’m guessing you were super careful not to leave any prints, but you slipped when you closed the door.”

  It was a partial print, and not of much use, really, but I was hoping that Kent would not be au fait with these things – I certainly hadn’t been till Nick had explained it to me, but it didn’t really matter, as Kent – as I’d expected – had a response ready for me.

  “So I’ve been to Everett’s apartment? He was a friend of my fiancée. The guy was my best man, for Christ’s sake. Of course I was there.”

  “When were you last there?” I asked.

  “I don’t know,” he laughed nervous
ly. “Week's ago. Months.”

  “So not in, say, the past week.”

  “Absolutely not!” Kent insisted.

  “But you were there the day he died,” I said, gesturing at the computer printout that took up most of the screen, “Just like you were at Jane’s when she died.”

  “The day she died,” he shrugged, “Maybe. And who says I was anywhere?”

  “When she died,” I answered, “Gesturing back to the screen. This is a data dump from your mobile provider. It triangulates your phone with various points, at various times. That’s what says you were anywhere, Kent. And that’s also what, by pure coincidence, shows your phone located in Desmond Everett’s flat the day he died, and in Jane Barton’s flat at exactly the same time someone was using her phone to text me.”

  I was bluffing, somewhat, but it worked as I’d hoped.

  “You little Limey Bastard,” Kent snarled, snatching his arm free from Nick and reaching into his pocket.

  “I wouldn’t” Caz said, her voice laced with menace, and Kent’s eyes widened in surprise, his hand freezing. “Stick ‘em up,” Caz ordered, her attempt at Chicago gangster coming across more like Maggie Smith playing Bonnie Parker.

  Kent put his hands up, his shoulders drooping in resignation, and sighed. “OK,” he said, “I’ll come quietly.”

  Nick and Reid appeared, took hold of Kent, cuffed him, and lead him away, disclosing that what Caz had been poking into his back had been, rather than a Smith and Wesson, a miniature bottle of Veuve Cliquot.

  The widow, I felt, would have been proud.

  “Baby,” Kent stopped by Olivia, “this is all a mistake.”

  Olivia stared into his face, took a deep breath, as Tony Taylor put an arm around her waist, set her face into a look that I’d last seen carved in marble at the National Gallery, and said “I’m afraid, Kent, that I shall have to break our engagement.”

  CHAPTER FIFTY-SIX

  “Mum’s just gone out,” he said, standing in the doorway, looking paler, thinner and, somehow, smaller than I remembered him looking last time we’d met.

  “I know,” I answered. “I’ve been waiting for her to leave.”

  Jonas Campbell shook his head in confusion. “But why?” he started, and I stopped him by lifting the bag at my side.

  “Cos I have something for you,” I said, and he stepped to one side.

  I stepped into the hallway, closed the door, and followed him into the kitchen.

  “I don’t understand,” he finally said, and I smiled.

  “Neither did I,” I admitted, “At first. And neither, I suspect would many people. How old are you, Jonas?”

  “Twenty,” he said shyly, his red rimmed eyes never leaving the bag that I’d placed on the worktop, his fingers curling and uncurling as though the longing to touch the bag was barely containable.

  “And Dave Walker was..?”

  “The kindest, sweetest, most honourable man I ever met.” Jonas answered, tearing his eyes from the bag and staring into mine. “What’s that got to do with anything?”

  “There was quite an age gap,” I said, “between you and him.”

  He froze, his mouth open, his eyes flicking from the bag to me, then, at last, he said: “So you know?”

  “That you were lovers?” I answered. “Yes. But why it was a secret is something I’m puzzled by.”

  “People would never understand,” Jonas sighed, “They see a younger man with an older one, and the jeers start. They think there must be something funny going on. How could I possibly love him? How could he possibly see me as anything other than a young bit of trade.”

  “And did you?” I asked. “Did you love him?”

  His eyes filled with tears, he reached out, finally, and grabbed hold of Dave Walker’s shoulder bag as the tears spilled down his cheeks, and finally, a sob, a sound like a dying animal might make, exploded from somewhere deep within him, and, still holding the bag, he collapsed to the floor, his arms curling around the cheap canvas and plastic relic as he tried – and failed – to stop the pain issuing from him in choked sobs and screams.

  I watched him for a moment, then dropped to the floor and put my arms around him, shushing him quietly, as he rocked slowly backwards and forwards, the grief bursting from him in noises that moved from cavernous echoing sobs to, finally, guttural choking barks.

  “How did you know?” He asked, at length. “Nobody knows. Nobody. We couldn’t tell anyone. He was afraid they’d laugh at him. Afraid that I’d hate him for ruining his life.

  “I couldn’t have borne that. I didn’t want anyone to ever hurt him. My mum – she would have fired him. I didn’t care: I told him so, but he wouldn’t let me tell anyone, he was so afraid that it would ruin everything, and so nobody could know. And now – since it happened – I haven’t even been able to cry. I can’t face letting my mum know, now. It’s all ruined. How did you find out?”

  “Heinz.” I nodded towards the corner where the kitten – clearly more house broken now, and allowed out of its crèche in the kitchen cupboards watched us silently, as though trying to understand these two humans, sat on the floor with a cheap bag between them and a desperate sadness hanging over them.

  “While your mum was on holiday,” I said, as Jonas wiped snot and tears away with the back of his hand, “I’m guessing Dave stayed here with you.”

  “We could be safe,” he smiled ruefully, “playing like we lived together. He made dinner. I ironed shirts. We watched TV,” he swallowed a sob, “It was,” this time the sob burst forth, another fusillade of tears washing down his cheek, “Perfect.”

  “You fed the cat,” I added, “And Dave got scratched. I saw the scratches on his wrist.” I held off mentioning that I’d seen the scratches when I’d discovered the body: That was an image this young man didn’t need in his mind.

  “That’s how I knew. I found out that he was happy, that he had someone in his life who made him happy, but that it was, as they say, complicated, and I wondered, at first, if those complications had lead to his death. Then I remembered the phone – the one he’d struggled to use. The one that had, it seemed, been a gift to him by someone who understood technology, who didn’t see him as an old geezer, and I figured the two – cat scratches and technology – lead only one place. Plus, there was the cufflink.

  “Dave had mislaid a cufflink. When I came here, I made a cup of tea for your mum, and – looking for teaspoons – I opened the drawer over there. And – although it took me a while to realise it – I saw the missing link.”

  Jonas sobbed again, but managed to pull himself together and struggled, still holding the bag closely, to his feet.

  I followed. “When I realised that Dave’s murder was the result of the stupidity and panic of people involved in a plot Dave couldn’t even have been aware of, I was happy.

  “He was happy when he died,” I said, “he was in love, and that love was reciprocated. And that makes me happy, Jonas, cos we do so many stupid, and sick and wrong things for love. We tell lies to the very people we love, so as not to hurt them.

  “We feel guilty about the things we do, and we let that guilt build a wall between us and the very people we love. We let our own pride – our own fear of losing the ones we love – turn us into judgemental prigs, and we chase them away before they can hurt us. But none of that happened with you and Dave. You loved him, and he loved you till the end.”

  The end made me recall the moment, that morning, that Caz had informed me that her romance with Anthony Taylor was over.

  Tony, it seemed, had become closer than ever with Olivia Wright.

  “I thought,” I’d said, “That you two were – y’know – an item.”

  Caz had smiled. “I am the daughter of a penniless Duke,” she’d observed, “And either Gamble or Tristran will inherit what little money is left when Pops dies, so: No money, no prospects, and of an age when one really should have been married off. Would you – if you were the dashing Anthony Taylor – see me
as marriage material?”

  “But you’re brilliant,” I said, “funny. Gorgeous. You wear a hat better than anyone I’ve ever known.”

  “You’re quite right: Olivia doesn’t have the neck for a hat,” Caz said, as she commenced chopping the carrots I’d peeled and put before her.

  “Even more pointedly,” I said, “Aren’t they cousins?”

  “Second,” she sighed.

  “Still a bit weird.”

  “Oh sweetheart, if second cousins marrying each other was off the menu, the aristocracy would have been speaking Turkish by about 1920. Let’s just comfort ourselves that Anthony is, at least, smart enough to stop her putting all her money into an Albanian Botox mine…”

  I smiled at Jonas. “There’s a lot to be said for love. Whatever it looks like,” I said, wondering what my boyfriend’s wife looked like, hoping she was plain and dull, but suspecting she wasn’t, “And wherever it leads us.”

  Jonas sighed deeply, ran a hand over his face. “What am I gonna do?” He asked me, as though I had answers.

  From my pocket, I pulled the one thing I’d removed from Dave’s bag before giving it to the boy. “He wanted you to have this, but he’d been afraid to give it to you.”

  Jonas took the bag, emptied it into his palm, and stared at the ring, slim, gold and pure.

  He looked up at me, and repeated his last question.

  “What am I gonna do?”

  “I don’t know,” I said. “I truly don’t. I don’t even know what I’m going to do, Jonas.”

  I patted him on the shoulder, thought better of that, and gave him a hug, which he reciprocated, holding on to me like a drowning man holding on to a life buoy until – as though remembering he’d had swimming lessons – he finally let me go, and I bent to scratch the kitten’s head as it purred curiously.

  “Here’s what I do know,” I said: “The more we sit around waiting; the longer we spend afraid of taking action, the more we end up losing control.

  “There’s a lot to be said for living. Just doing it. Putting things off – delaying asking that question; telling that person you love them; being yourself, telling the world you’re in love – it’s all such a waste of time. And we have so little of that to begin with.”