The Body in Belair Park

by Alice Castle

  She went to the fridge. For a moment, she was tempted to use full fat instead of semi-skimmed, but she curbed the impulse and slopped a little of the thin, bluish milk into the preposterous rose-splattered jug. The shelves were all but empty. She should really organise an Ocado shop to make sure Wendy didn’t go hungry, but a quick peek in the freezer below showed her enough of Waitrose’s finest posh ready meals stacked up to take her mother through the nuclear winter if necessary.

  ‘Right, I’ll be off then,’ she said firmly, gathering up her bag, dropping a kiss onto Wendy’s white hair, and shutting the front door behind her before her mother had time to dream up any more tasks. She was thoughtfully retracing her steps to her car when she was hailed by a querulous voice. She stood stock still for a horrible moment, but it was only the next-door neighbour. Beth trotted over with a smile pinned to her face.

  ‘Hi, Mrs Hills, how are you?’

  ‘Fine, dear, but how’s your mother?’ said the stout middle-aged lady, lowering her voice in that way people do when they speak of the terminally ill.

  ‘Oh, she’s fighting fit,’ Beth smiled.

  Was that the slightest twinge of disappointment flitting across June Hills’ face? Beth had never been sure about Wendy’s neighbour. The two women, both widows and roughly the same age, had lived in a state of armed neutrality since Wendy had moved there after her husband’s untimely death. While, in Beth’s opinion, Wendy had devoted herself to frilly inconsequentialities, Mrs Hills had ploughed on very much as she had when her husband had been alive, for the first ten years or so at least. A top civil servant, she had run various government departments with one hand apparently tied behind her back. Having recently taken early retirement on a massive pension, she had turned her attention to her garden. From the front gate, Beth saw and admired the serried ranks of shrubs, all neatly pruned into balls of various sizes, like green marbles which had rolled into position after some celestial game of solitaire. At regular intervals, chrysanthemums exploded upwards in bursts of acid yellow. After a moment’s thought, Beth decided she preferred Alfie Pole’s fleshy dahlias to these aggressive blooms, but it was a close-run thing.

  ‘Garden’s looking amazing,’ she said, carefully selecting an adjective that could cover the good, the bad, and the ugly. The transformation in June Hill’s manner was immediate. She had asked after Wendy as a matter of form; her years of discreetly manipulating the levers of power meant she was nothing if not diplomatic. But the garden was her baby; was, indeed, her entire family, as her husband’s death had left her without any close relatives.

  ‘Would you like to see what I’ve done with the back?’ she asked, girlishly shy all of a sudden. ‘It’s a new planting scheme.’

  Beth, realising that she was probably the worst person to ask as she knew nothing about gardens and cared even less, couldn’t turn down the invitation. From everything she’d heard, gardens might well be the clue to Alfie’s death, and even her mother’s poisoning. If the Bridge Club seemed to be yielding a disappointing no-bid so far as potential suspects were concerned, Beth needed to turn her attention to one of Alfie’s other obsessions.

  ‘Love to,’ she said, trying to look as enthusiastic as possible.

  June Hills ushered her in through a hallway that was as minimalist and airy as her mother’s was cluttered. Everything was painted an uninspiring but inoffensive beige. They didn’t pause, but trekked straight to the sitting room at the rear of the house. In Wendy’s place, next door, this had been made into a kitchen, but June Hills had kept to the original floorplan and a large book-lined room, in shades of wheat, corn and biscuit, acted as a neutral frame to the real drama, which was all going on outside.

  A drift of tall acer trees spread across the back of Mrs Hills’ garden like a wall of flames, their vibrant oranges, reds, and purples all but crackling in the mellow autumn sun. Beth was astonished she’d never appreciated their true beauty before, but June Hills had erected a high fence almost as soon as Wendy had moved in and Beth, like her mother, had rarely bothered venturing into the neglected back garden. Wendy had muttered about complaining to the Wyatt’s Estate, which had strong views on correct fence heights, but inertia and her hectic bridge schedule had got the better of her.

  The rest of the garden was as beautiful as the trees; a lush expanse of grass, the first that Beth had ever seen that could rival the Wyatt’s lawn, then more of the close-clipped shrubs, and a staggering variety of flowering things whose names Beth couldn’t even guess at. There was even a large pond in the centre with the waterfall Beth had remembered glimpsing before the fence went up. And as she watched, she could see the sleek, strangely muscular-looking bodies of giant white and orange fish flashing up and down. They must be the carp that gave Wendy the “willies”. The whole thing looked like one of those pictures of perfect gardens you got on the sort of vintage biscuit tins that Wendy no doubt had in profusion next door.

  ‘Wow! It’s astonishing,’ sighed Beth. It was no struggle to pick the right word this time. The garden really was a labour of love, and it had paid off handsomely.

  ‘I’m so glad you think so,’ said Mrs Hills. Her voice was as monotone as ever, but there was a wash of pink in her cheeks now. ‘If you don’t mind, I’d like to show you something else.’

  There was no mistaking it; June Hills was decidedly tentative. Beth gave her a surprised look, but the woman avoided her eyes, led her out into the corridor again, and then up the stairs. This was a bit odd. People didn’t normally take you up to the upper regions of their homes, unless the only loo was up there, for instance. In this case, Beth was pretty sure they’d passed a small bathroom downstairs. But she trotted obediently behind her hostess, up the cream-of-mushroom carpet, passing several anodyne prints which managed to be both terribly tasteful and instantly forgettable. The landing was another sea of beige.

  Then Mrs Hills flung open the door to a large, square room. It was evidently a spare bedroom, and looked as though it had been hoovered to within an inch of its life moments before. Even Beth, who was no fan of clutter, balked at the relentless blankness of the décor – magnolia again, with long pale taupe velvet curtains and a matching bedspread. There was one personal touch, a rather battered old teddy lying on the pillows, but the poor old thing was pretty beige, too. The only splash of colour came from the acers outside.

  June Hills tiptoed through the lush pile of the squeaky-clean carpet, and Beth had a passing pang at the thought of her own floors at home. She really must give them a good going-over, and soon. Then Mrs Hills brought her over to the window. They looked down on the spectacular garden again. June Hills sighed in pleasure and clutched her hand to her chest. Beth looked at her capable, sausage-like fingers and square-cut nails with slight misgivings.

  ‘Lovely,’ Beth muttered, feeling that however fabulous this garden was, she had probably praised it enough at this stage.

  Impatiently, Mrs Hills shook her head. ‘Look, over there. See what I mean?’ she asked, gesturing now with the stubby hand. Beth obligingly craned over to her left – and then immediately guessed what the problem was.

  From here, one had a perfect view of Wendy’s back garden next door. If June Hills had worked to make hers a blessed plot, then it seemed Wendy had done just the opposite. Weeds, the rank, dark green of spinach past its prime, choked what had once been a perfectly acceptable lawn. A nasty old patio was riven with cracked paving stones. Between them, more weeds burst out exuberantly, like mischievous tufts evading a swimsuit. Meanwhile, a rusting barbeque was propped against the fence like a sozzled guest at a drinks party, compounding the disreputable scene. Somewhere at the bottom of the garden lurked a shed, its window cracked and its door sagging on ancient hinges. Perhaps Wendy had a mower in there. Perhaps she didn’t. But it was abundantly clear that she was never going to use it, even if it did exist.

  ‘Do you know what that is?’ said Mrs Hills, pointing to the far side of Wendy’s patch.

  ‘Er, no,’ admitted Be
th, though that was hardly surprising – there was so much in both gardens that was a mystery to her.

  ‘Japanese knotweed,’ said June Hills, through closed eyes and painfully pursed lips.

  ‘Aha,’ said Beth, none the wiser. ‘Do you want me to ask my mother for a cutting?’ she asked helpfully.

  ‘No!’ shouted Mrs Hills. ‘No, no, no! It must all be burned. It must be reported to the Council. It’s a pest, it’s going to bring our houses down. Destroying my garden will only be the first step,’ she said, staring at Beth with true venom.

  ‘Really? Are you sure?’ asked Beth, scrutinising the boring-looking weed again, squinting down at it and trying to see it as the villain that Mrs Hills was surveying with equal parts of anger and terror.

  ‘Of course I’m sure,’ she said blisteringly. ‘I ought to have your mother prosecuted for this, you know.’

  ‘Gosh, that’s going a bit far, isn’t it?’ Beth remonstrated.

  ‘I’ve told her time and time again. I first noticed it months ago. And she’s done nothing. It’s Japanese knotweed, for God’s sake. Don’t any of you know the first thing about gardens? It’ll spread. Spread like wildfire!’ Mrs Hills said, raising her hands to the beige ceiling like a gospel preacher bringing the word of the Lord to an extraordinarily bland congregation.

  Beth looked at her in alarm. Either the woman was one daff short of a window box, or Wendy had been very remiss. She thought for a moment and decided it was quite clear which was which.

  ‘It undermines the foundations. It strangles other plants. It’s like having a, a, a serial killer loose in your back garden, and doing nothing about it. I can’t let it get at my acers,’ Mrs Hills continued on a high-pitched wailed.

  ‘Of course not,’ said Beth. She almost patted Mrs Hills on the arm, but held back at the last moment, not sure if it would help or would tip the poor woman right over the edge. ‘I can’t believe my mother hasn’t dealt with this. Did she realise how serious it was?’

  ‘You know Wendy,’ said Mrs Hills bitterly. ‘If I’ve explained it to her once, I’ve said it a thousand times. I’ve even taken photocopies of the advice from the Royal Horticultural Society itself and stuck it through her door,’ she added.

  Beth could just imagine how much her mother had loved that – and could almost calculate the number of seconds she’d spent glancing at the information before shoving it in the bin.

  ‘She goes at her own pace, your mother,’ Mrs Hills said.

  Or didn’t go at all, whatever suited her best, thought Beth.

  ‘She did say her son would soon be over and would sort it all out, but that was ages ago and there’s been no sign of him. She said you were always much too busy,’ she added with a sideways glance.

  Beth was silent. It was true, she did always have too much to do. But she could have found time for something serious – and Wendy wouldn’t have hesitated to ask. She’d also have loved to drag Harry into the whole thing, getting him to pull down or dig out or burn or whatever you did with this stuff. Her mother just hadn’t taken this seriously enough.

  ‘Look, leave it to me,’ said Beth, trying her best to mollify Mrs Hills. The last thing they wanted was to get the Wyatt’s Estates involved in this. Or Southwark Council either.

  Beth left the house feeling a bit shaken. It was partly the realisation that, yet again, Wendy was refusing to act her age. This time, though, she had apparently been going back in time to some sort of irresponsible teenage abdication of responsibility. But there was another reason for the new pleat etched into Beth’s forehead, beneath the sheltering curtain of her fringe.

  There was no mistaking it. Mrs Hills was very, very angry with her mother. But was she furious enough to have reached the dead-heading stage?

  Chapter Nineteen

  Beth woke up the next morning feeling as though all the cares of the world were pressing down on her slight shoulders. There were the usual worries – Wyatt’s, Ben, Harry, even the succession of coffee mornings she seemed to be being left out of. Then on top of that, there was the death of poor old Alfie, and the ghastly attempt on her own mother’s life. As if that wasn’t enough, the whole lot had now been garlanded by Mrs Hills with a lavish portion of Japanese knotweed.

  Thank goodness Josh was coming over soon – a phrase she never thought she’d hear herself say. He didn’t yet know it, but she had a busy schedule of root and branch weed removal sorted out for him, after she’d spent last night researching ways to kill the terrible blight lurking in her mother’s back garden.

  Today, though, there was another ordeal to face. Not work. Not even trying to find out from Katie what was going on with the MacKenzies. No, for her sins, she’d agreed to go to the Bridge Club with Wendy, and act as her partner.

  In a way, it was a quid pro quo. Wendy had agreed, reluctantly, to take the knotweed removal seriously, if Beth would just come to bridge with her.

  Beth felt slightly sorry for her mother. She’d lost a lot when Alfie Pole had been shuffled off into the big card game in the sky. Not having a regular partner meant missing out on her great passion, and also on a lot of her social life.

  After her weed discussion with Wendy, Beth had said that she’d step into the breach this once, but she’d made it clear that it wasn’t going to be a regular thing. Her mother had readily agreed, but in a way which suggested she was inwardly listening to a different tune, and one which pleased her more. Beth hoped fervently that they’d both be singing from the same song sheet by the time today’s session was over.

  Some aspects of Beth’s morning were a lot easier now that Ben was older. While she was dragging herself from her bed and readying herself for the coming ordeal, Ben was showering and dressing without any parental intervention at all. By the time she’d made it downstairs, he was already plopping his cereal bowl to soak in the sink, gathering up his expensive blazer, its motto For God’s Sake winking up at her with all its golden threads, and tugging on his battered, equally expensive shoes. She was amused to see he’d already found a hack for the laces – by squashing down the back of each shoe, he could slip his feet in and out without undoing the bow at all. She winced at the damage this was causing, but couldn’t help feeling a little burst of pride that he was so good at problem-solving. She wondered if it would catch on with his peers.

  ‘How’s it going in the class? Any boys you like? Anyone you want to invite over?’ she said to his back as he walked rapidly down the hall.

  ‘Just Charlie,’ he said with a smile as he turned and let himself out.

  She was left contemplating the door as it slammed, and thinking for the umpteenth time how like his father he was when he grinned in a certain way.

  Under the kitchen table, Colin had finished his morning chore of mopping up any spillages and looked at her expectantly. ‘Oh, Colin,’ she said, smoothing the warm velvet of his head. ‘I’m not sure about you and bridge. I don’t think Belair House is that dog-friendly. And, though you’d be a brilliant guide dog, I’d have to be blind, which would probably mean I’d be even worse at bridge than I actually am. You might have to be very brave today and stay and look after Magpie. What do you think, boy?’

  Colin gave her a deeply reproachful glance. Magpie, stalking past to check on the nugget situation in her bowl, shot her a much more vicious look, altered her course abruptly, and dived out of her cat flap as though the hounds of hell were pursuing her, instead of one tired old Labrador who’d probably appreciate the company.

  ‘Tell you what, Col, I’ll have another cup of tea with you, shall I? If I don’t have to go into the office, then I can mooch around a bit with you before going off to the Bridge Club. How’s about that?’

  Colin batted his tail against the cool kitchen tiles and opened his mouth to pant. It looked exactly as though the old dog was smiling a wide, happy smile, and Beth decided she’d take it as that and ignore the drool spooling down perilously near her foot. ‘Good boy,’ she said.

  Later, Beth would look back o
n these few moments of shared companionship with Colin as a quiet beacon of hope in an increasingly violent and disordered world.

  Chapter Twenty

  Beth surreptitiously looked at her watch. It was past ten o’clock, but everywhere the room was still full of people chatting aimlessly. Opposite, she could feel Wendy’s gathering frustration. She’d been ready to play since they’d taken their seats ten minutes ago. She’d had far too long away from the game, what with one thing and another. The fact that one of these things had been poison, probably administered right here in this very room, was a terrifying truth that didn’t really seem to have struck Wendy properly, Beth thought, as she looked sideways at the people clustering around the room. Was one of these apparently innocent old dears responsible for her mother’s agonies? And, even worse, were they the person who had sent Alfie to his grave?

  It didn’t bear thinking about, yet that was exactly what she needed to do. And, she reminded herself sternly, she needed to come up with an explanation before the culprit had another go. At the moment, their motive was obscure and whatever purpose had propelled the first two crimes might still be driving them now.

  Was it the Japanese knotweed, she wondered? Although, as Mrs Hills didn’t play bridge, Beth probably couldn’t lay the crime at her door. Was it something to do with the allotments? But as Alfie had only been a gardener for show, after all, it seemed unlikely. Was it a simpler motive – his own daughter’s wish to turn his house into a movie backdrop? But then, why would she have had a go at Wendy? That would only draw attention to her crime, and Wendy had nothing to do with Alfie’s house. It was all quite baffling.

  While Beth had been thinking, the others had finally taken their seats. The tinkle of Deirdre MacBride’s little golden hand bell interrupted a dozen murmured conversations, and everyone bent to the red boards containing the cards. Beth struggled to prise her hand out of the funny little aperture, and almost dropped the lot. Wendy gave her a stare and she clutched the little fan more carefully. Now, how did you do this again? What were the cards worth? Each of the picture cards had a value – four points for an ace; three for a king; two for queens; and a single point for a jack.