by M B Vincent
‘Surely that wasn’t a real relationship?’ queried Rupert.
‘Not on Lasco’s part.’ Jess had given this some thought. ‘Kelly McVeigh was part of his disguise. He could pass for normal with a girlfriend.’
‘Whatever normal is,’ said Rupert.
‘Feck normal!’ said Mary. ‘Am I right?’ she said. She didn’t wait for a response. ‘I am,’ she decreed.
***
Clusters broke apart, reformed. The party flagged, then found its second wind. Squeezers sang. Susannah made Stephen dance with her. Jess rubbed off her lipstick.
Bogna swept through the throng. ‘Give. Give!’ She snatched empty glasses. ‘Jess, you help, yes?’
‘I help, no,’ said Jess. She turned to Eden. ‘Admit it,’ she said. ‘In the end, it was a hunch that broke the case.’
‘A hunch backed up by some excellent analysis, and close questioning of Fred Lasco.’
‘Was that a compliment?’
‘It was.’ Eden was amused. He was relaxed. The shepherd was having a night off. ‘You did well, Jess.’
‘We did well.’ Eden’s team was the only one lone wolf Jess wanted to be part of.
Bogna stopped to eyeball Jess. ‘How many sausage-on-sticks you eat?’
‘That’s a very personal—’
‘How many?’
‘Twelve,’ shouted Jess.
‘Eat prawn vol au vent instead.’ Bogna took a glass away from Eden just as he put it to his lips. ‘Prawn is off, isn’t it.’ She turned to Patricia Smalls. ‘Maybe you try a couple, eh?’ she suggested, with Soviet subtlety. ‘And you, Irish!’ Bogna called over to Mary. ‘No more dragging waiter boys into my utility room.’
Not long ago, that ‘my’ would have enraged Jess. Harriet was stamped on every stick of furniture, every utensil, every paperback in Harebell House. But now it was Bogna who kept the house whirring warmly; the utility room was Bogna’s.
‘Boggie,’ said Mary, ‘I solemnly swear not to misbehave among your white goods ever again.’
Inherited diamonds glittering at her ears, Iris joined Jess, and pointed across the room. ‘Who invited her?’
‘Not me.’ Jess saw how Gillian Cope parted the crowd like a bad smell.
‘Patricia?’ bayed Gillian. ‘Where is that woman?’
Stepping behind Jess, Patricia stooped over her glass.
‘There you are.’ Gillian elbowed her way over. ‘I hate bastard parties.’
‘And yet,’ said Iris, languid and deadly, ‘here you are.’
‘It’s one big obscene mating ritual,’ said Gillian.
‘Really?’ Jess looked around her. ‘You sure?’
‘Look at the women, all done up like whores.’ Conversation petered out as Gillian ranted. ‘All we need is one big bag of sperm, and then women can forget about pandering to men altogether’.
Jess saw Rupert draw a discreet hand over the front of his trousers.
Iris said, ‘It’s always a special treat to discuss big bags of sperm at a party.’
‘Sorry not sorry,’ said Gillian. ‘I’ve no time for your bourgeois etiquette.’
‘And there was I thinking it was simple manners,’ said Iris.
‘Patricia!’
The mayoress jumped. ‘Yes?’ She crept out from behind Jess.
‘How about you pull your finger out and do your job for once? These murders have killed my visitor numbers, and BiGrKid’s losing money hand over fist. Come on.’ She clicked her fingers. ‘I want to ferret out the planning officer and see if he’ll rubber-stamp my ideas. You can help.’
‘Well, Gillian, such matters are beyond my control.’ Patricia was stammering.
Jess looked away, as if she’d seen Patricia in her underwear. It was humiliating to see her so cowed.
‘Are you or are you not the mayor of this dump?’
‘Yes, but, please, Gillian . . .’
The Judge spoke up from the far side of the room. Everybody stood up a little straighter. His voice, quintessentially British and honed in courtrooms for three decades, was rarely raised. ‘I consider Patricia Smalls to be an exemplary mayor, Ms Cope, and you are quite alone in considering Castle Kidbury a dump.’
There was a muted rumble of agreement.
‘You would say that, wouldn’t you?’ Gillian was unbowed. ‘Your name’s on the tin, you throwback. Patricia! Come on. I can’t take much more of this small-town, small-mind bullshit.’
‘Excuse me,’ said Meera. She hoiked her sari with be-ringed fingers. ‘We do not have small minds in Castle Kidbury.’
Moyra put her arm around Meera. ‘Well said, love. We are a modern, multicultural community.’
‘And we know,’ said Eddie, ‘a bad ‘un when we see one.’
Everybody said their piece.
Squeezers darted forward. ‘BiGrKok is a rude word!’
Dandan Wong said, ‘Show some respect.’
Lynne’s comment was lost as she coughed up a vol au vent.
Mitch said, ‘Come on, Gillian, behave, it’s a party.’
Only Patricia was silent. She leaned into the Judge, face buried in his lapels.
Gillian stared them all down. ‘The only interesting thing about this chocolate box ghetto is your murder rate!’
‘There were no invitations issued to this party because all are welcome,’ said the Judge, ‘Except you, Gillian. You’ve worn out your welcome in Castle Kidbury.’
Squeezers was the first to turn his back on Gillian. He did so slowly, and with great solemnity, in his rancid coat.
Moyra turned.
Meera turned.
Eden turned.
Moretti and his wife turned.
Iris turned. Jess and Rupert turned with her.
Eddie, Lynne, Graham Dickinson all turned.
With a little persuasion, Moose turned.
Soon the entire room had its back to Gillian. She stood like a lone tree in a flattened forest.
‘Shut the door on your way out,’ said Bogna. ‘Isn’t it.’
***
Only the diehards were left.
Lynne was chatting up a lampstand.
Squeezers snored in Moose’s dog bed.
Bogna and Mary foxtrotted around the kitchen.
‘All set for the big move, Rumpole.’ Jess tore the Elastoplast off the wound.
‘Not exactly.’
‘What’s the hold-up?’
‘Me,’ said Rupert. ‘I’m the hold-up. I’ve decided not to go.’
‘I see,’ said Jess. ‘Thanks for telling me.’
‘Thanks for asking,’ said Rupert.
Later, hearing about this, Mary would tut and comment that it was a bloody good job the human race didn’t depend on Jess and Rupert to keep it going.
Jess was stuffed with feelings she couldn’t name. Not all of them were welcome, some of them were too lovely to look at, but relief was among them. Relief was jumping up and down and blowing a vuvuzuela.
Rupert looked at her. She looked at him. They laughed; each one’s reluctance to say anything vaguely meaningful was so obvious to the other.
CHAPTER 26
LEAN ON ME
Sunday 20 December
From downstairs came the sounds of Bogna singing and mopping and knocking over chairs. It wasn’t a good idea to clean up whilst drunk, but neither Jess nor her father fancied pointing that out. Jess had already been mopped in the face when she asked Bogna did she realise it was three a.m.
The study was quiet. Warm. Moose lay against the door, a furry draught excluder.
The clock ticked.
The fire played soft percussion. Jess, cross-legged on the rug, stared into the flames.
The Judge, in a low armchair, stared at the back of his daughter’s head. ‘You seemed very cosy with Abonda Norris.’
‘I wouldn’t call it cosy. But I like her. She’s unusual.’
‘More to her than meets the eye, I suspect.’
‘Not all her predictions come true.’ Jess
paused. ‘You know Abonda killed Norris, don’t you?’
The Judge laid his head back. Looked at the ceiling. ‘I did wonder. I daresay Eden won’t put his all into that investigation.’
They were quiet again. It was nice. Jess said, ‘You miss the courts, don’t you, Dad?’
‘Sometimes. I don’t miss the hours. But the chance to bring a little order to a chaotic world, yes. To be woven into the community. To be of service.’
You’re embedded in this community like the stone circles and the henges, thought Jess. She often forgot to be proud of her father. Her legs ached; she changed position.
Confucious he say: people who enjoy Mars Bars on daily basis cannot expect to sit cross-legged for long.
‘About Patricia,’ said the Judge. Maybe he noticed how Jess stiffened. ‘You don’t have to worry. It’s not . . . It is . . . Jess, I’m not very good at these conversations, but I want to say . . .’
Jess traced the blue flowers on the rug’s golden background as she waited for what her dad meant to say.
‘I had one wife. That was Harriet. She’s my only, the only woman I . . .’ He cleared hs throat. Tried again. ‘Nobody will ever replace your mum, Jess.’
‘I know.’ The room was mainly shadow. ‘Dad, about David,’ said Jess.’It wasn’t your fault. David was what he was.’
The Judge was silent. Some regions are unreachable, even by the most intrepid explorer.
‘Do you ever wonder what it’d be like if David hadn’t committed suicide?’ Jess forced herself to call David’s last act by its name; no more euphemisms. ‘If he was still here?’
An owl hooted. Back in November, that sound would have made them both shiver, and wonder what was going on in the garden. Now, it was just an atmospheric noise. The wheel of the year kept turning, and they were all still safely on it, turning, ageing, alive.
Eventually, the Judge said, ‘As long as I’m here, David’s here.’ He took a long sip of his favourite whiskey from his favourite glass.
Moose wagged his tail in his sleep. It thumped against the door.
‘Dad, can I lean on you?’
Mildly, the Judge said, ‘You know you can always depend on me, Jessica.’
‘No, I mean, lean on you.’ Jess shuffled backwards on the familiar carpet. The blue flowers on the gold. She snuggled back against his legs. Fidgeted until she was comfortable.
She sighed.
He sighed.
The Judge put his hand on her head.
‘A fire feels even better,’ said the Judge, ‘when it’s raining outside.’
‘Can you feel a hint of thunder?’ Thor was at large tonight. Her phone made a sudden noise. She hoped it was Rupert. She read the text and her face changed. ‘I take it back about Abonda’s predictions. Looks like I am going on a journey soon.’
‘Don’t forget to come back.’
She leaned back against him. ‘I won’t.’ She answered the text, sent from a hospital >bed.
Abonda, of course I’ll come with you. A promise is a promise.
From the Kidbury Echo, page 1:
CASTLE KIDBURY’S SUPERPIG!
MARGARET HONOURED
In a touching ceremony at the Town Hall, Mayor Patricia Smalls awarded the keys of Castle Kidbury to Margaret, the striking Gloucestershire Old Spot whose bravery and never-say-die spirit led to the capture of renowned serial killer The Kidbury Kannibal, aka Nic Lasco.
Margaret (pictured right with Ms Smalls) is the property of Mitch Dalton, of Hungry Hill Farm. He said, ‘There’s no way this girl is going to be making bacon.’
Look out for our weekend supplement when we invite readers on a guided tour of Margaret’s superbly appointed sty.
About the Author
M. B. Vincent is a married couple. She writes romantic fiction; he writes songs and TV theme tunes. They’ve even written musicals together. They work at opposite ends of the house, and they meet in the middle of write about Jess Castle and Castle Kidbury, the West Country’s goriest market town. When they’re not making up books, tunes and mysteries, they head out in an open-top car and explore. They particularly like West Country market towns . . .
More from the Author
Jess Castle and the Eyeballs of Death
Also by M. B. Vincent
Jess Castle and the Eyeballs of Death
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First published in Great Britain by Simon & Schuster UK Ltd, 2020
Copyright © Just Grand Partnership, 2020
The right of M. B. Vincent to be identified as author of this work has been asserted in accordance with the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act, 1988.
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A CIP catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library
eBook ISBN: 978-1-4711-6826-0
This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents are either a product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual people living or dead, events or locales is entirely coincidental.
