The Clutter Corpse

by Simon Brett

  As I’d hoped, Dodge understood exactly what I meant. And also, why I was framing my request in such a roundabout way. ‘In fact, the timing’s rather good, Ellen. Yesterday I picked up a load of old wooden vats from a brewery that’s closing down. I have plans for recycling them …’

  ‘Into what?’ I couldn’t help asking.

  He chuckled. ‘That remains to be seen. I often have to look at something I salvage for a long time before I decide what it can become. Anyway, they’re bloody big buggers. I could get them off the van myself, but it’d take time. With two of us, the job’d be a lot easier. So yes, I could find work for a large, strong son.’

  He’s brilliantly intuitive, Dodge. He knew exactly what I meant. He fully understood that I didn’t want Ben to be alone. That’s the kind of understanding, I’m sure, which makes him such a success with the work he does at ReProgramme. Someone who’s been as low in his own life as Dodge has is never going to be judgemental about other people’s problems.

  I woke Ben, which was not an easy task, because he was still muzzy from the Zopiclone. But when he did come to his senses, it was clear that the manic mood was still on him. He was bright to the point of brittleness. Which is always a bit scary for me.

  He welcomed the proposal that he should help Dodge and said, ‘But, before that, Ma, I’m going to cook you the biggest Full English Breakfast that has ever passed your lips.’

  It was so enormous that at least I knew I wouldn’t have to look for anything at lunchtime. I dropped Ben off at Dodge’s and caught up on visits I’d been neglecting.

  It was less than a week since I’d last seen Queenie, but I still felt guilty. She looked thinner than ever and I wondered if she’d eaten anything on the intervening days. As I admired the cat illustration she’d shown me a hundred times before, and listened to her shock at what the weather girl on South Today had been wearing, I made sure she had one of the Hobnobs I’d brought with me.

  The fact that I only listened with half an ear to tales of her cats’ antics made me feel even guiltier. I was on tenterhooks. I felt certain Detective Inspector Prendergast would be back in touch. It was only a matter of time.

  I was also desperately curious to know what Hilary had said to the investigating police. They were bound to have talked to her.

  The failure of concentration continued when I went to see Ashleigh and Zak. Again, it was less than a week since I’d last seen her, but it was amazing how much rubbish had built up in the flat in that short time. There was also the ominous news that Ashleigh had got into a row with one of her neighbours over the weekend. Inevitably, about playing her music too loud. From her account, she clearly hadn’t apologized. Instead, she’d snapped back, which had only exacerbated the situation. The neighbour had said she was going to complain to the housing authority.

  Again, I felt I should be listening more attentively to what Ashleigh said. I should be coming up with solutions, offering to intervene on her behalf. But my mind was elsewhere.

  It was while I was with her, getting on for ten in the morning, that I received a text. Making my excuses, I hurried out with indecent haste and was checking my phone the minute I was through the door.

  Hilary. Asking me to call. I did.

  ‘Where are you?’ I asked.

  ‘Home. The police have just been questioning me.’

  ‘Prendergast?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘How was it?’

  ‘We need to talk,’ was all she said by way of reply.

  ‘Buon Caffè?’

  ‘No. Too public. I’ll come to your place.’

  ‘Straight away?’

  ‘No. They haven’t finished the questioning yet. This is just a coffee break. I’ll text you when I’m finally allowed to get away.’ Then, with a touch of humour she didn’t quite believe in, she added, ‘That is, assuming I’m allowed to get away.’

  I knew I should have gone back to try and sort out Ashleigh’s problems, but I couldn’t focus on them. I went home, as tense as a teenager whose on-off boyfriend has promised he’ll call.

  I couldn’t settle to anything. Mindless activity was required, so I did some housework. I sometimes think, if it weren’t for the necessity of sometimes shutting out unwelcome thoughts, my house would never get cleaned.

  Even if I hadn’t had Ben’s Full English, I wouldn’t have stopped for lunch. I was too wound up.

  It was after three thirty when Hilary rang to say she was on her way. She’s normally very good at keeping her emotions under control, but her voice sounded tight.

  I couldn’t even concentrate on housework until she arrived. I offered her coffee or ‘something stronger’. She chose coffee. I knew her tastes and she followed me through into the kitchen while I made it. A decent coffeemaker is one of the luxuries I think I deserve.

  ‘Listen, Ellen,’ she said, ‘we’ve both spoken to Prendergast now.’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘So, I think it’s important that we coordinate our stories.’

  ‘OK,’ I agreed cautiously.

  ‘Obviously, we’ve both been a bit Jesuitical about what we’ve told him.’

  ‘What do you mean by that?’

  ‘Everything we’ve told him is true, but we have not necessarily told him all of the truth. So, we need to agree which bits of the truth we’ve left out – and which bits of the truth we intend to keep leaving out.’

  ‘Give me some examples,’ I said, handing across her flat white.

  ‘From what Prendergast said to me, you’d mentioned my research with the lifers at Gradewell.’

  ‘I could hardly have avoided that, could I? Anyway, that’s information he could have got from any number of sources. From the governor of Gradewell, for a start.’

  ‘I’m not questioning that. But you didn’t mention to Prendergast that I knew Nate Ogden was likely to have gone to ground at Walnut Farm.’

  ‘I didn’t know that for a fact. I might have assumed it, but you hadn’t told me in so many words. I told him that you’d agreed to meet me at Walnut Farm, but I didn’t mention the connection with Nate Ogden.’

  ‘Good. Incidentally, they told me the time you got there. Why did you arrive late?’

  I realized I hadn’t told her about the overnight crisis with my son. ‘Suddenly had to sort something out with Ben,’ I said.

  Hilary did know a bit about his mental health problems, but she’d never talk about it if I hadn’t raised the subject. Another of the ground rules in our relationship.

  ‘You did go there, though?’ I asked. ‘To Walnut Farm.’

  ‘Yes. I waited for you for half an hour, and then went back to Wittering.’

  ‘And did you find Nate Ogden’s body? Before I did?’

  ‘No. There was no sign of him there.’

  ‘So, he must’ve died between the time you left … which was, what …?’

  ‘Seven fifteen? Round then.’

  ‘And the time I arrived with Ben, which was … probably quarter to ten.’

  ‘Yes. Giving him a full hour and a half to top himself.’

  For a nanosecond I was about to tell her that Nate Ogden didn’t ‘top himself’, that he had in fact been murdered, but some instinct prevented me. I can be Jesuitical too when required. All truth, but not necessarily all of the truth.

  ‘Presumably, Hilary, Prendergast didn’t tell you that he suspected Nate of Kerry Tallis’s murder?’

  ‘No. But he did go as far as suggesting the two incidents might be linked.’

  ‘Which we could have worked out from the fact that he’s in charge of both investigations.’

  ‘I suppose so.’

  ‘What do you think happened, Hilary?’

  ‘With Nate?

  ‘Mm.’

  Hilary did one of her pauses, collecting her thoughts. ‘I think he probably did kill Kerry – and then topped himself out of guilt – or, more likely, because he knew the police were bound to catch up with him. I can understand why Nate went to his
mother’s house. What I can’t get is why Kerry Tallis went there.’

  ‘Oh, I may be able to help you then.’ No reason not to pass on to her what I’d learned from Les about Maureen Ogden’s prize draw win – and the likelihood that she’d kept the proceeds in a shoebox under her bed. Which information might just have been too alluring for someone with a heroin habit like Kerry’s. Then, if Nate Ogden had surprised her stealing from the house of his recently deceased mother …

  ‘You have been doing your research,’ said Hilary, in a manner that wasn’t entirely complimentary.

  ‘I’m just intrigued by the whole thing. Also looking to protect myself.’

  ‘How do you mean?’

  ‘In the last few days, I’ve been the person to discover the bodies of two people dead in suspicious circumstances. Inevitably, the police are going to be questioning me further. Self-preservation dictates that one of the ways I can get them off my back is by finding out how Kerry Tallis and Nate Ogden actually died.’

  ‘Becoming an amateur sleuth?’

  ‘Of necessity. More coffee? I could do with another.’

  ‘Please.’

  As I busied myself with the machine, I said, ‘Interesting to meet Liam on Sunday …’

  ‘Oh yes,’ she said vaguely. He was clearly way down her current list of priorities.

  ‘Did he just stay at the cottage that night?’

  ‘No, he’s been there since.’

  I shook my head in exasperation. ‘You do make trouble for yourself, Hilary.’

  ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘Haven’t you noticed that Liam’s obsessed with you?’

  ‘Oh, don’t be ridiculous. I’m old enough to be his mother.’

  ‘And don’t you realize how attractive an older woman can be to someone of his age?’

  ‘You’re talking nonsense.’

  ‘So, you’ve left him at the cottage?’

  ‘I’m not sure.’

  ‘What on earth do you mean by that?’

  ‘He was certainly there before Prendergast and his sidekick arrived, because I talked to him through his bedroom door. When I left to come here, I shouted out, but there was no response.’

  ‘Oh? Let’s take our coffee through.’

  When we’d sat down again, I asked the direct question. ‘Are you all right, Hilary?’

  ‘Not you too.’

  ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘I talked to Philip just before I came here. He asked exactly the same question.’ So, he too had noticed the hairline cracks in her customary self-possession.

  ‘He was worried because you weren’t answering your phone.’

  ‘Look, all that’s happened is that I’ve spent a morning being questioned by the police. Not a very pleasant experience, in anyone’s book. But I’m all right!’ The vehemence with which she said the words undermined their meaning. ‘And now,’ she went on, ‘Philip’s insisting on coming down to the cottage to “support me”, as he put it.’

  ‘Philip’s coming down here? On a weekday?’

  ‘Yes, he’s insisting.’ Hilary looked at her watch. ‘He’ll be driving down now.’

  What she said made me realize how little I actually knew about Philip and Hilary’s marriage. The self-sufficiency they both showed to the outside world was maybe not as strong as it appeared. Contrary to appearances, Philip was aware of an inner fragility in his wife. A shortcoming which, even given our closeness as friends, she had never shared with me. This revelation of weakness increased my fondness for her.

  But I didn’t make any comment. The distinguished surgeon Philip Boredean was abandoning his day’s work to ‘support’ his wife. That was all I needed to know.

  ‘Anyway,’ I said, ‘back to Detective Inspector Prendergast … which particular part of your recent activities do you want to keep secret from him?’

  ‘Sorry?’

  ‘Which bits of the truth do you intend to keep leaving out?’

  ‘Ah. With you. Right, I haven’t told him that I went to Walnut Farm yesterday evening.’

  ‘Why ever not?’

  ‘Because I thought it would sound unprofessional.’

  ‘Unprofessional in what way?’

  ‘Unprofessional as regards my work as an academic. I’m doing this PhD on lifers. That means I can interview them, delve into their psyches, but it doesn’t mean I can help them to evade justice.’

  I saw what she meant. Knowing the hideout Nate Ogden was likely to use but keeping that information from the authorities at Gradewell and the police … yes, that could come under the heading of ‘unprofessional’. Not to mention ‘perverting the course of justice’.

  ‘So, Ellen, if you can keep that from Prendergast …?’

  ‘Sorry, too late.’

  ‘You mean you’ve already told him?’

  ‘Of course I have. He asked me the direct question. As he was bound to do. What reason would I have had for going to Walnut Farm if you hadn’t suggested meeting me there?’

  I was struck by an anomaly. I had told Prendergast the previous evening that Hilary had fixed to meet me at Walnut Farm. She had told him this morning she hadn’t gone there. He must’ve spotted the inconsistency, and yet he didn’t question her about it. Which made me think that the inspector was perhaps following some devious plan of his own. I should be on my guard.

  Hilary’s beautiful face looked crestfallen. What she’d asked was typical of her, though, I thought. Always having higher standards for herself, never wanting to be shown up. Desperate not to threaten her credentials as an academic.

  But still vulnerable enough for her workaholic husband to put supporting her above the demands of his surgery.

  Dodge brought Ben back about five thirty. He was on his way to lead a session at ReProgramme. It was clear that, for both of them, the day had been a success. Dodge had been glad of help with the heavy lifting, and Ben had become intrigued with the ingenuity of the recycling on display. He’d even volunteered his painting skills to decorate some of the artefacts, and Dodge had not ruled out the idea.

  I realized something I should have realized long before, that Dodge was the perfect companion for my son. His own experiences had brought him great empathy with human suffering. Of course, he’d undergone some relevant training at ReProgramme. And the work he was willing to share with Ben was purely physical. The best kind of therapy for an unsettled mind. A bit like housework was for me.

  I knew I mustn’t take advantage of his good nature, but I recognized that Dodge could prove a useful occasional resource in dealing with my son.

  After the Tipper had driven away, I could tell that Ben was still in a heightened mood, though not so manic as he had been the day before.

  ‘I’ll cook this evening,’ I said. ‘After that Full English you produced this morning. One of my lasagnes OK?’

  ‘Fabulous, Ma. Dodge did produce cheese sandwiches at lunchtime, but I feel pretty peckish now.’

  Over dinner, I was encouraged to hear that during the day Ben had rung a friend from Nottingham. ‘Decided I’ve been having too much of my own company. Not, obviously, that I’m denigrating having your company, Ma.’

  I grinned. ‘No offence taken.’

  ‘Anyway, I’ve fixed to meet her up in London tomorrow.’

  ‘Her’ was promising. As I mentioned, because of his mental condition, Ben’s relationship history has been somewhat fractured. I’m not only speaking as a proud mum when I say that he’s very attractive, and when he’s in full flow in one of his more manic moods, he can be a mesmerizing talker. He has no problem in attracting female interest.

  In this, of course, he’s just like his father. And just like his father’s, his moods shift. So Ben could leave a party with the telephone number of a girl who’d been spellbound by him all evening and wake up the next morning in such a state of self-loathing that he’d never get round to ringing her. Their closeness of the night before, his mind told him, had been just a flash in the pan. He wasn’
t worthy of her. They had no future. He’d only mess up her life.

  In this, he was again just like Oliver. It was only after we’d been together for a while on the houseboat that Oliver had told me how nearly he hadn’t rung me after our first, post-Waterstone’s snowy encounter. What had seemed so simple in the pub that evening had become enormously complicated the following morning. Thoughts of the age difference, his glibness, his general unworthiness had, in his mind, made it almost impossible for him to dial my number.

  What I had put down to his cavalier insouciance in not ringing me had been something much more complex.

  I still thank God daily that my attraction for him beat off the negative thoughts.

  So, the casual mention of my son going to meet a girl was music to my ears. Far too canny a mother, though, to ask any follow-up questions, I poured glasses of Merlot for both of us, and waited to see if Ben would volunteer further information.

  I had to wait a while, as I often do, but over the lasagne he told me that her name was Tracey, that she wasn’t at Nottingham Trent, she was at the older established University of Nottingham. They had met at a rock concert.

  ‘What’s she reading?’ I dared to ask.

  ‘Criminology.’

  ‘Oh, so she’s a postgraduate?’ With my question came a mother’s instinctive calculation: older than him then.

  ‘No,’ said Ben. ‘It’s her first degree. She’s in her second year.’

  I stopped myself from saying that I knew the University of Nottingham only did postgraduate degrees in criminology. Because I remembered where I had got that information from.

  And I wondered why Liam Burgess would have lied about something like that.

  NINETEEN

  I slept better that night – thank God – and woke up determined to pay more meaningful visits to Queenie and Ashleigh. I felt guilt for my lack of focus the day before. I must make it up to them and, hopefully, ease the tension between Ashleigh and her neighbours

  Ben was already up, dressed, breakfasted and ready to cycle to Chichester Station before I made it to the kitchen. The British Museum was running an exhibition on the history of printing which he’d talked of visiting, and here was his perfect opportunity.