The Body in Belair Park

by Alice Castle

  Sometimes, she truly thought she’d had it easy, with only herself and Ben to consider for so many years. In some ways, this mere thought was madness. Being widowed had been no fun at all, and the financial insecurity that even now was freaking her out about the school fees was a worry so well-worn it was almost like an old friend. But not having to consult anyone else, or indeed try to please anyone else, had had its advantages over the years. Perhaps she saw that more clearly, now she had someone who, nominally at least, she could discuss decisions with.

  An image of Harry flashed into her head for a second. So large, so uncompromising in his rough blue wool jacket, so used to being obeyed. That was the trouble with these commanding types… like Belinda, she supposed. There was definitely an initial attraction to the idea of an alpha male. All that swooning into strong arms was really rather lovely. But living with one was another matter. They just got to the point where they were astounded when people didn’t do what they were told.

  But she didn’t want to compare her own beloved (most of the time) boyfriend to Belinda MacKenzie. Drat the woman, she could spoil anything. And all right, Harry was bossy. But that was his job. He was used to being in charge. Someone had to be.

  Beth gave herself a mental shake and tuned in again to Katie, who was trying to march her swiftly past the Aurora coffee shop, where Beth, left to her own devices, would always stop. All right, the coffee itself was terrible, but it was one of the few cafes in Dulwich where you could be sure that every word you said wouldn’t be overheard and then breathlessly recounted all over the postcode before you’d even paid your bill.

  ‘Hang on a second, Katie. I’ve said I’d meet my mother here.’

  ‘Not Aurora’s? You didn’t tell me that,’ said Katie with a moue of distaste.

  ‘Well, I wanted you to come, didn’t I?’ said Beth cheekily, bending down and looping Colin’s lead under one of the rickety metal chairs positioned hopefully outside, in case of a sudden September heatwave. Colin looked at her reproachfully out of his big chocolatey eyes. She sighed and sloshed some water from the bottle in her bag into the battered old dog bowl on the pavement. She patted his head briskly then held the squeaky door open for her friend and ushered her inside. ‘Anyway, they might have bought a new coffee machine to celebrate the start of the school year,’ she added encouragingly.

  Chapter Four

  Katie walked in, paused and sniffed, then turned to Beth and shook her head once with infinite sorrow. Whatever the smell in the place was, it wasn’t freshly ground beans being gently cosseted into giving up their delicious aroma, pretty much the elixir of life as far as Dulwich – and particularly Katie – was concerned. No, it seemed that the Aurora was ploughing on with its tried, tested, and sorely lacking old appliances, and as a result it was going to be a wonderful place to have quiet conversations for another year at least. Beth was secretly jubilant, though she assembled her features into a mask of mild regret, for Katie’s sake.

  Out of the sea of empty tables, the women chose one in the corner, from where Beth could just about see Colin. She strolled to the counter to do battle with the feisty and unfriendly staff – it was only fair after dragging Katie here on false pretences – and returned with a couple of pastries to keep them going while they waited for Wendy.

  ‘What time did you say to your mum?’ Katie asked, eyeing the venerable-looking pains au chocolat a mite suspiciously before putting one gingerly on her plate.

  ‘Nine o’clock, but you know her, she’ll keep us waiting,’ said Beth through a mouthful of pastry which, while still flaky, was not desperately fresh. She was hungry enough not to care. She’d been too nervous to eat this morning – and too busy exhorting poor Ben to cram down more of the cereal he had been chasing around his bowl with his spoon.

  ‘So, tell me all about the summer – all the bits I don’t already know, anyway. How’s the new place coming along?’

  Katie had one of the most beautiful houses in Dulwich, backing onto the Park and with a kitchen that, even two full years after it had been finished, was still considered in the forefront of trendy design by those in the know. But she had just taken on a holiday home as well. She and her husband, Michael, a big fish in publishing, had been wringing their hands about whether or not to buy for years. The idea was to give their precious Charlie a taste of country life, far from the artificiality of Dulwich society. The reality was that they were irresistibly drawn to areas that were full of other weekend refugees from the south eastern pocket of the capital. Finally, they’d fallen hopelessly in love with a tiny cottage ‘in the wilds of Cornwall’, which turned out to be a picture-postcard village where stockbrokers outnumbered tin miners by about ten million to one.

  Despite having been virtually perfect when they’d bought it, at what Katie admitted were steep London prices, they were now in full-on refurbishment mode. Beth, who’d been shown all the pictures on Rightmove, and who’d suffered enough pangs of envy to satisfy Katie that they were doing the right thing, had no idea how they could make the place better. Every inch of it looked delicious to her, exactly as it was. But if anyone could gild the lily, it would be Katie.

  Sure enough, as they thumbed through the photos on Katie’s phone, Beth could see the place was coming together beautifully. In a village already chock-full of Farrow & Balled gems, it was going to be the jewel in the crown. It had a delicate lattice-work wooden porch and dinky little windows studded either side, like sleepy, come-hither eyes. And it was now painted the most delicate shade of lavender, with pure white accents. What any remaining locals would think of it, Beth dreaded to think. The original owners would have been hearty fisherfolk, used to roughing it through freezing winters and isolated summers. Katie’s heated flooring, power showers, and Hungarian goose down duvets was putting paid to all that.

  Though the advent of families like Katie’s brought a sporadic bonanza of trips to the area’s water parks, they couldn’t compensate for the lack of a year-round population to keep schools and shops open. Michael would be the first to fulminate if the village Post Office-cum-general store shut down. But that wouldn’t stop him getting Katie to do a massive shop at Waitrose before getting to the cottage, to ‘tide them over’ during their stay. He’d probably pop in once or twice during the fortnight to pick up firelighters or a pack of bacon, wince loudly at the prices, then be astonished when the place wasn’t there on his next visit.

  ‘God, it’s so gorgeous, Katie. You are lucky.’

  ‘Mm, I love it to bits already. And it’s so great for Charlie.’

  ‘The fresh air? Lovely walks, the boats? Seaside nearby?’

  ‘Yes. All that. So wonderful,’ Katie said briefly. ‘But the best thing is that you can only get a Wi-Fi signal in the loo round the back – and it’s perishing in there, so the poor boy hardly bothers,’ said Katie with a little giggle.

  Beth couldn’t help laughing along, though she wasn’t sure she’d go to such lengths to stop Ben playing Fortnite. And also, ahem, she didn’t quite have the best part of half a million pounds to spare to accomplish it.

  Just then, the door jangled, then moved in an inch, and stuck fast. Beth looked round. Wendy was on the other side of the glass door, yanking ineffectually at the handle. Beth closed her eyes briefly, then got to her feet and walked round, pulling the handle cleanly and proffering her cheek for the usual peck.

  ‘Honestly, Beth, I can’t think why you like this place,’ Wendy said a bit too loudly. ‘Even the door is defective, and that’s before you so much as try the coffee.’

  ‘Shh, Mum,’ Beth said automatically, without the slightest hope that Wendy would take any notice. It was already too late. The waiter, behind his counter, threw down his tea towel and stomped off to the kitchen, from whence they heard the sound of fairy cakes being rearranged with maximum prejudice.

  Once her mother was settled – which took an inordinate amount of time, and involved much flicking of gauzy scarves and reorganisation of long strings of beads �
�� she looked around with the downward pull of her mouth that Beth dreaded.

  ‘Not a soul in here. Of course. No-one but my daughter can stand it, eh, Katie?’ Wendy trilled a mirthless little laugh.

  Katie smiled back automatically, and Beth’s heart sank a little further. Getting Beth’s friends on-side against her was a typical Wendy tactic, first deployed in her teenage years. It had proved so successful that she still used it today. Beth drummed her fingers on the table, not caring that her irritation showed. Wendy darted her a glance, then seemed to remember who needed who, this time.

  ‘Well, Beth. Who’d have thought I’d be asking your advice, of all things?’

  ‘Who indeed?’ Beth countered coolly, meeting her mother’s blue eyes. A flash within their depths suggested that Wendy knew when enough was enough.

  ‘I’m so grateful that you’ve got time for your old mother. Especially when I need you so much.’ Wendy’s hand came down on Beth’s, silencing the drumming fingers and causing her eyebrows to lift in surprise. This was about as fulsome as her mother’s praise had ever been.

  ‘No-one believes me when I say that Alfie’s death was no accident. Thank goodness my own daughter’s on my side,’ Wendy continued, now looking at Katie for simple reassurance rather than trying to divide her loyalties.

  ‘Beth’s amazing,’ Katie said, nodding enthusiastically. ‘If anyone can get to the bottom of this, she will.’

  ‘Now hang on a second there…’ Beth was already feeling uncomfortably warm. Two compliments in as many minutes? She brushed her fringe off her newly sticky forehead. Was it her, or was it suddenly tropical in here? And did she really want to be lumbered with another mystery, anyway? They always came at a price. She slid her hand out from beneath Wendy’s tiny paw, and pulled nervously at the sleeve of her sweater, her fingers absentmindedly brushing past the scar on her forearm. They then automatically traced the silvery mark on her forehead, too. Messing with murders could take its toll.

  It wasn’t always just physical, either. Many was the night when she was roused from sleep by a horrible memory. Sometimes they were specific – the gleam in a madman’s eye, the smell of a dank passageway she shouldn’t have ventured down. Sometimes there was just a vague feeling of dread. But it was never easy to get back to sleep afterwards, even if the comforting bulk of a large Metropolitan Police detective was taking up more than half of the bed, and a crazed killer would have to crawl over him to get to her.

  On the other hand, this was her mother. Could she really draw the line at helping her? All right, Beth’s first foray into amateur sleuthing had been to try and clear her own name, when she’d been implicated in a murder. But after that, she had to admit she’d sometimes got involved out of not much more than idle curiosity. Would it kill her, as it were, to get involved in this just to put her mother’s fears at rest?

  Wendy’s suspicions were bound to be groundless. Beth could just tell her now, forcibly, that she was wrong, that Alfie had died of old age, and to suggest anything else was ridiculous. But was it really fair to turn her back on her mother’s obvious distress? As she watched now, her mother’s cornflower blue eyes filled up with tears.

  Part of Beth knew this trick had been honed over the years as a supremely effective weapon against her father, who’d crumbled every time in the face of a weeping female. But her dad had been gone for many years. Was Wendy still able to turn on the waterworks at will – or was she genuinely full of sorrow?

  Beth sighed. The jury might be out forever over that little matter. What was certain was that Wendy’s daughter had been too well trained by this stage. She simply couldn’t deliberately cause her mother pain. They might not often – or possibly ever – see eye to eye… but this was her mother. There was a bond there, tattered though it might often seem, that was unbreakable.

  And there was a side issue. Beth could never really resist a juicy mystery. Maybe this time, there’d be no unpleasant shocks in the night. Yeah, right, thought half of Beth’s brain. The other half was already turning over a new leaf in her notebook and sharpening a pencil in anticipation.

  ‘I suppose you’d better tell me all about it, then,’ said Beth slowly.

  ‘Well, I’ve given you all I know already, dear,’ quavered Wendy unhelpfully.

  ‘No, Mum. If you really want me to do this, I’m afraid you’ve got to give me a lot more help than that. Us,’ she said, glancing over to Katie, who was looking suspiciously eager to be included. ‘Katie will be helping me, of course.’

  Wendy glanced over to Katie in some surprise, but perhaps wisely held her peace. ‘I don’t suppose there’s any danger of me getting a coffee, is there, before I start? My throat is so dry…’ she said, essaying the tiniest little cough to underline her point.

  Typical, thought Beth. Her mother did her best to alienate the only waiter, then made it someone else’s business to get him back on side. But they could all do with a cup of something. She wasn’t sure if it was just a Dulwich rule, or one of the immutable laws of the universe, but a good story did always go down better with a tea or a coffee. She pushed her chair back, went over to the counter, and peered sideways into the depths of the kitchen. As well as a counter-top covered with fairy cake crumbs, there was a tangle of cups in the sink and an ominously-hissing coffee machine that looked as though it had been new on the day Belinda MacKenzie had first tried fillers. And that was a date lost, along with the woman’s smile, way back in history. No sign at all of the waiter.

  Beth tried a rather fruitier version of her mother’s cough. Nothing. Then called out a tentative, ‘Hello?’

  Immediately, there was a cross rattle from the depths of the store cupboard. ‘Coming, coming, honestly,’ the waiter grumbled, as though Beth had been yelling at him for hours.

  There was a slight face-off when he eventually emerged behind the counter again, smelling strongly of cigarettes and clearly having flouted all the standard health and safety regulations by smoking in the confined space of the store room, over the café’s supplies.

  How revolting, thought Beth, glaring at him. She really must move on from this place. As usual, nine-tenths of her adherence was from sheer stubbornness in the face of everyone else’s lack of enthusiasm. She really ought to grow up. But she bit back a few choice comments and took refuge instead in a veritable blizzard of acid politeness.

  ‘Three teas, please. Two Earl Grey and a builder’s, if you could. And some milk, if you wouldn’t mind. Thank you so much.’

  With the waiter now severely told off, in Beth’s view at least, she sat down with her back to him and rolled her eyes lavishly. Katie hid a giggle behind her hand, but Wendy looked magisterially oblivious. She might appear as delicate as one of the Dresden shepherdesses she collected so relentlessly, but like many women of her age, or even the age she pretended to be, Wendy didn’t mind being firm in pursuit of what she wanted, particularly to those she considered underlings. And the world, it seemed, was full of those.

  ‘Now, Beth, if you’ll just listen a moment and sit still, then I can get on with the story,’ she rebuked her daughter, who fumed inwardly at the injustice.

  ‘I was just doing your bidding…’ Beth said mildly.

  ‘Bidding? How did you know it was about that? Don’t tell me someone’s been filling you in already?’ said Wendy, seeming alarmed.

  Beth shrugged. ‘I’ve no idea what you’re talking about, Mum. Why don’t you start at the beginning?’

  Wendy gave Beth a reproachful glance and started to rearrange her jewellery, a default move when she was ill at ease. Once every bead was satisfactorily realigned, and once Beth had got her blood pressure down to normal limitations, Wendy was at last ready to speak again.

  ‘The thing is, it was just a normal day at the club. You know?’

  ‘The thing is, we don’t,’ said Beth, leaning across the table. A slight stiffening from Katie at her side gave her notice that she should calm her body language a bit. She drew back, and added more quietl
y, ‘Perhaps you could talk us through it. A normal day, and then this day in particular. Then we’ll be able to see if there were any differences.’ Her tone was now exaggeratedly patient.

  Beth was beginning to despair that they’d ever get any useful information out of her mother, but perhaps that was just as well. As far as she could see, the only crime that had been committed here was by the Grim Reaper, gathering an overblown specimen to his scrawny bosom. All right, the Bridge Club wasn’t exactly the most private way to go. But Alfie might have quite liked it. He’d been doing what he loved. And at least he hadn’t been on his own.

  Wendy was rattling her beads again, and turned to Katie. ‘You understand how it is, don’t you, dear?’

  Katie, for once, looked politely baffled. ‘Um, not sure I do, Wendy?’ she said mildly. ‘Just tell us in your own words exactly what happened that day.’

  ‘That is, if you can remember,’ Beth added heavily.

  At the suggestion that her memory might be slipping, Wendy seemed to pull herself together. Sparing Beth a less-than-motherly glance, she started piecing things together. ‘Well, I would have arrived at Belair House at about, what? Maybe 11.15 or 11.30am… and then I would have left at about 2pm—’

  ‘I thought the Bridge Club started at ten? And carried on until about five? That’s what you’ve always told me,’ Beth interrupted sharply.

  It had been a bone of contention for as long as she could remember. Bridge had always lain slap bang across Wendy’s days like an immovable boulder. It had meant that, whatever age Ben had been, Wendy had always been safely occupied twice a week on either side of toddler playgroups and playdates, then school pick-ups, and even after-school clubs, and couldn’t possibly be asked to lend a hand doing the odd pick-up or drop-off, unlike every other grandmother that Beth knew.