by Heide Goody
“Are you living in my old house?” she said.
“Pardon?” said Erin. The clouds of steam vapour around her smelled of cinnamon and fruits.
Polly pursed her lips. “I misspoke. You are living in my old house.”
Erin snorted. “Who told you that?”
“I saw it. I was there.”
“You left this place?”
“I’m not a prisoner, Erin. I went out, I saw the house. You live there.”
Erin held her gaze, face frozen, an android malfunctioning. “You couldn’t support yourself,” she said eventually. “You were having episodes.”
“A bladder infection. A passing illness.”
“You made the decision to sell.”
“You told me to.”
“I advised,” said Erin firmly. “You weren’t coping. The place was too big and too expensive and—”
“And you made me sell it for less than the market value. Far less.”
“A place became available here.”
“And you bought my house.”
“We purchased it from the property company, a third party.”
“And if we looked at whose company that was. A friend? Maybe you even own it.”
“David’s wife runs—”
“Who’s David?”
“My practice partner, I told you. She has a property business.”
“This is theft.”
“Polly, please,” Erin scoffed. “I’ll not have hysteria.”
“No one will believe the amount you paid me was a genuine or fair offer.”
Erin shook her head, displeased. “And I brought you mince pies.”
“Well,” said Polly sourly, “you wouldn’t want me to get fat, would you? A friend pointed something out to me.”
“One of your do-lally friends here?”
“If I die within seven years of the sale then the Inland Revenue might look at that house sale and decide you paid me so little it could constitute a gift. A taxable gift.”
“The house comes nowhere near the threshold for inheritance tax. Do not kid yourself, Polly.”
“If I died within seven years. That’s the period of time they look at. And if it’s not taxable, they might just look at it and wonder what kind of scam you pulled on me. Best to keep me healthy and whole into my eighties, eh?”
Erin huffed and, in doing so, huffed a great cloud of vapour between them. “Fanciful nonsense, Polly.”
“I could get a solicitor. I could get you struck off as a GP.”
“Which reminds me, I do have a shift to do later.”
“I could call the police.”
Erin snorted in derision. “Now, you’re being silly. No one’s done anything wrong and the police have much better things to do.”
“Like investigate murders,” said Polly.
“Er, yes.”
Polly had a vivid mental flash of that snivelling murderer James Huntley, bound and helpless in the chair, and she felt a surge of power course through her. She could picture herself with a knife in her hand, showing this bitch of a niece what she was truly capable of. But she didn’t need a knife.
“You need to be careful,” she said in a low, menacing whisper.
“Threats?” said Erin, unfazed. “One could almost believe you were having another episode. Remember that poor young man you shouted at in the supermarket? I don’t know if we can trust anything you say or do.”
“Oh, you’d be surprised at what I can do.” She didn’t care that now she did sound like a crazy lady. “You stole my house from me and put me in here.”
“But you’re happy here.”
“You want to deny me every pleasure in life just to suit your own needs.”
“This is no way to behave at Christmas.”
“You are an appalling mother.”
“I keep my family safe.”
“You don’t deserve a family. You don’t deserve to live.”
There was no crack at all in Erin’s emotional armour, just the patient rebuttal of everything Polly said. “This is no way for us to behave at this time of year,” Erin smiled. Oh, it was almost a human smile. “Here. I brought you something else. Something to bring you some cheer.”
Erin offered Polly a heavy envelope. Then with a nod, she turned and left.
The envelope was thick and constructed from heavy sugar paper, held together by a square of Sellotape. It came open with almost no effort. Inside was a card.
Glitter cascaded from the card as Polly removed it. She didn’t know if it had been made by Jack or Iris. The mountains of glitter stuck to it made it impossible for her to decipher the picture. It could conceivably have been Father Christmas with a reindeer. It could have equally been a fireman having a fight with a picnic table.
Merry Xmas was written across the front in wobbly felt tip.
“Christmas was yesterday,” she said quietly. “Yesterday.”
Glitter came away on her hands as she moved them, red and sparkling white. She instinctively wiped them on her cardigan, which only meant she now had glitter on her cardigan and her hands.
“Fucking, fucking glitter,” she said. She had tears in her eyes now.
She went back into the apartment, ostensibly to clean her hands, but the moment she saw the little detonator device on the table, she understood what she had truly intended. There were two lights on it now, one continuously, the other winking intermittently.
She picked it up and strode out again, only realising on the stairs that she was still wearing her nightie under her cardigan and had fluffy slippers on her feet. She went to the main entrance.
Automatic doors slid open for her. Erin was in the car park, beside her car, the boot open. She dropped the carrier bag inside with little care. Poor mince pies squashed at the bottom, went a little thought through Polly’s head. It was drowned out by her roaring rage.
A car was pulling off the main road and into the car park but there was no one else around.
Erin closed the boot and saw Polly down by the entrance.
“Why did you do this?” Polly called to her. “What did I ever do?”
Erin gestured vaguely with her e-cig. “Just … just look at you,” she said and took a drag.
Polly flicked the switch.
The bang was no louder than a Christmas cracker. The plastic casing of the e-cig shattered in Erin’s hands. Her cheeks bulged instantly, her eyes too, and the back of her head burst apart, throwing out a shower of blood, brain and bone – red and white.
It was, all in all, quite beautiful.
81
“Oh, my good giddy God!” yelled Rich, stalling the car in surprise. “Did you just see that?”
Of course, Sam had seen it. They had all seen it. How could they have not seen it?
The woman in the car park. Her head had just exploded. There was even a spatter of blood on the windscreen.
The woman – it was Dr Hackett – fell, twisting like a helter-skelter as she bounced to her knees and then onto her face. What remained of her face.
“I don’t understand,” said Marvin numbly from the back seat.
They had landed at the airfield ten minutes earlier. Peninsula had offered to drive them home, but Rich’s car was also parked there. Peninsula had been sent on ahead to prepare yet more food for them at Rich’s apartments in the defunct Hotel Splendid. Rich offered to drive Sam and Marvin to Otterside. Sam had agreed, although she had little idea how she was going to prove her theory or challenge the suspects.
The conundrum had been taken from her hands in an instant.
She unclipped her seatbelt and ran out to the fallen doctor.
Her eyes scanned the building as though expecting to see a hidden sniper. Her hand was already clutching her phone. It only took a moment to switch to the keypad and call 999. Her mind gabbled through her first aid training – recovery position, the ABCs of CPR…
She crouched beside the woman who was obviously dead – she was missing the back half of he
r skull – putting her hands to her neck to feel for a pulse anyway.
“Hello. Emergency service operator. Which service do you require?”
“Ambulance. I don’t know. There’s been a terrible accident. Her head…”
There were people coming out of the retirement village building now. General staff, the manager and at least two women in nurses’ overalls.
“I’m at the Otterside retirement village,” said Sam into the phone. “It’s Dr Erin Hackett. She…” She couldn’t say that the doctor’s head had exploded, no matter how true it was. “She’s suffered a massive head injury. She’s dead. I’m…”
Nurses, pausing momentarily at the shocking scene, pushed Sam firmly aside and knelt beside the corpse.
“There’s an ambulance on its way,” said the operator. “What kind of injury?”
“I don’t know,” said Sam, standing back. A nurse looked at her and mouthed ‘Nine nine nine?’. Sam nodded. She turned away and, looking to the building, saw Polly Gilpin stock still among the staff and residents who were blocking the door.
“It’s like a firework went off in her face,” said Sam.
She took one step towards the building. Polly saw her and immediately withdrew back into the crowd.
“I don’t think it was an accident,” said Sam and followed.
There was a press of on-lookers to get through, a mixture of the horrified and the fascinated. Once she had pushed through, the corridor beyond was relatively free. She looked left and right and could see no sign of Polly.
Regardless of what DC Camara might think, Sam had encountered death upon death upon death linked to Otterside. Each one different, each one too unusual to be initially seen as murder. What would they say about Dr Hackett? That her e-cig had exploded. Such things were known to happen. But Sam didn’t believe it for an instant. There was a plan in action here, a plot.
She knew where Polly’s room was and took the stairs.
If Polly was involved then what did that mean for her theory? Had Polly picked up the discarded handcuffs after the calamitous conclusion to the magic show? Maybe that meant she was the architect of the drink-driver’s death. Janine had snuck out on the night of Drumstick’s death. So had Alison killed Greg Mandyke for Janine, and Bernard killed Dr Hackett for Polly or vice versa?
Sam reached Polly’s door, hesitated only a second, and knocked.
But how did these people, all with murderous intents, all find one another? This wasn’t just Strangers on a Train, this was a whole organised murder outing.
There was no answer. Sam knocked again.
“Polly. It’s Sam Applewhite. From DefCon4. I just want to check that you’re okay.”
No response.
Maybe she was hiding, maybe she was elsewhere. Sam set out to look.
The 999 call on her phone had dropped, forgotten. She called the number for the Skegness police station. Camara had not yet got back in touch with her, but it definitely felt like it was time to call the cavalry.
82
The three members of the Otterside social committee sat in the north lounge.
“It’s almost as if Chesney is stealing the pieces to deliberately torment us,” said Jacob, turning over a recently reclaimed jigsaw piece in his hands. “He says he knows nothing of it, but they still keep going missing and they keep turning up one by one near his office.”
“Torment us,” said Strawb. “Oh, quite probably.”
“I’ve made people sign a liability form when they take the jigsaws out now, and keep them locked away in the cupboard only we have keys for. But it’s clearly still occurring.”
“If we may return to the matter of the sequence dancing which should be taking place this evening,” said Margaret.
Jacob, in the manner of a man who felt missing jigsaw pieces was a higher priority than any mere social activity, grumbled but settled into silence. Margaret Gainsborough decided the meeting agenda and brooked no arguments. There was evidently some sort of hoo-hah going on in the corridor beyond the lounge, even some medical staff running full sprint towards the epicentre, but Margaret was not going to have her meetings disturbed by such things.
“Now, we traditionally make use of the old gym, but that currently contains holes fifteen to nineteen of the new crazy golf course—” she began. She was halted by the sight of Polly Gilpin rushing in, bouncing off the open door as she came.
Margaret would not have normally stopped for such an interruption, but there was a wild alarm in Polly’s eyes that cut right through her.
“I did it,” Polly panted.
Strawb stood and took hold of her with supporting hands.
“What’s happened?” said Margaret.
“I flicked the switch,” Polly said. “Erin. I did it. But the woman saw me.”
“Who saw you, love?” said Strawb.
“That Sam. From the company that did our fitness trackers. She’s asked questions before, and she saw me. I know she saw me.”
“I see,” said Margaret.
“Ambulances and the police are coming,” said Polly. “They’ll know. They’ll know.”
Margaret nodded slowly. “I think we might have to call this meeting to an unscheduled stop.”
“She’s here now,” said Polly and there was an unbecoming panic in her voice. Margaret had thought her made of sterner stuff.
“We don’t know this Sam character knows anything,” said Jacob.
“We facking do,” said Strawb. “Poll’s just said.”
“Then we silence her,” said Margaret. “Like we did Dennis.”
Jacob shook his head. “I don’t think we have any more weather balloons, and there’s hardly any air in the cannister.”
“Like we did with Dennis generally,” hissed Margaret. “Not specifically. We take a boat trip and—”
She stopped, interrupted for the second time in a minute.
Sam Applewhite, that young and earnest women from DefCon4, stood in the doorway. Her right hand was covered with blood. She held a phone to her ear in her left hand.
“Are you all right, dear?” said Margaret, nodding at her hand.
“I was hoping to speak to Polly.” Sam looked at her phone, then put it away, a twitch of her nose suggesting it wasn’t giving her any joy anyway. A call unconnected.
“We just heard the news of the terrible accident,” said Strawb. “Bladdy awful. Those e-cig things are dangerous.”
Sam blinked and frowned and blinked again, then a half-smile creased her lips. “Organisation and dissemination,” she said.
“Pardon?” said Margaret.
“Your role. You organise and disseminate.” She laughed bitterly. “My dad said – my dad is Mr Marvellous, the man whose handcuffs you stole – my dad said the most masterful players of games are the ones who make it look like someone else is in control.”
“Not following you, love,” said Strawb.
Jacob interjected. “What she’s saying is that—”
“Do shut up, Jacob,” said Margaret. “What exactly is it you’re suggesting, Miss Applewhite?”
The woman hesitated, but only an instant. “You organise murders.”
“The social committee?” said Margaret.
“Yes. You arrange to have people killed – and turkeys – and you find the people to do it.”
Strawb tried to laugh it off. “You hear yourself? That’s crazy.”
“Definitely crazy,” agreed Sam, “but I think it’s true. Maybe you’ve all watched too many episodes of Murder She Wrote or something. All those daytime murder mystery shows gave you ideas.”
“Getting a touch ageist now,” said Margaret. She caught Strawb’s eye and looked aside to the cupboard in the corner.
“I know Janine killed Drumstick. That’s the turkey. Bernard must have – the exploding vape thing. He was a military man, wasn’t he?”
Strawb carefully let go of Polly and went towards the cupboard. “How many murders are you actually accusing us of?” Marga
ret saw how he put a little bit of old-age dodder in his movements to emphasise his harmlessness.
“I don’t understand the ins and outs,” said Sam. “And I can’t believe you think it’s okay to do this.”
“What we think is okay,” said Margaret as Strawb fiddled with the lock on the cupboard. “Getting older does that for you.”
“Makes you lose your grip on morality?” said Sam, not deliberately offensive but merely bewildered.
“Age gives you time and distance and perspective, Miss Applewhite.”
“That’s not an excuse to kill three people. And a turkey.”
Margaret winced. She wished the woman would stop mentioning the turkey. It was embarrassing.
Strawb had the cupboard open, along with the shoebox at the back. He turned with Bernard’s revolver in his hand. Margaret had no idea if it was loaded, but the threat of it was probably enough.
“Oh, come on,” said Sam. She sounded both afraid and irritated as she put her hands up. “There’s no need for that.”
“I’m sorry, but there is, little lady,” said Strawb gently with a glint of his white teeth.
“You think we killed three people?” said Margaret. “You have no idea.”
83
Hilde and a couple of uncles were remonstrating with the unhappy police detective who’d come down to interfere with their honest and harmless business of launching their longship. He was a lanky fellow, a full head higher than either Yngve or Gunnolf, but he had that Saxon manner of trying to be reasonable when he should be stamping his authority and he was easy to counter. Ragnar was continuing with the launch preparations while the Saxon cop was kept at bay.
“Are we doing anything illegal, detective?” said Hilde.
“Well, no, not specifically, but in terms of your own safety—”
“And who says we should follow your laws anyway?” demanded Yngve loudly.
“Well, the law says you should follow the law. As citizens of the United Kingdom, we should all—”
“I recognise no kingdom but that we have declared for ourselves!”