by Simon Brett
I was surprised by a sudden pang of memory, of a time when I was pregnant with Ben. Juliet at the same age as Amy, before she became the distant Jools, reacting with ecstasy to a picture of ballet dancers (her then obsession) that Oliver had painted for her third birthday. I wondered if she still had it. Or had she excised the painting from her life, as she had everything else that might remind her of her father? The recollection of Curtis family happiness was sharply painful.
Back in the present, as ever, Dodge’s eyes would not meet those of the three females in the room, but he knew how gratefully his skills had been appreciated.
It was only then that I realized that the set of drawers which formed the structural basis for Amy’s dressing table had once sat underneath the doors of a genteel television-disguiser.
So, it was appropriate that my next visit that morning was to see Minnie in her care home. It’s a local authority one and only just the right side of adequate. The old girl hadn’t fully recovered her speech after the stroke which put a stop to her independent life. I could understand her slurred sentences because I’d worked at deciphering them, but I doubted whether any of the overworked care-home staff had had time to put in that kind of effort. A lot of them didn’t have English as a first language, so sometimes it was difficult for Minnie to understand them as well. And most of the other residents were too demented to hold a sensible conversation, anyway.
I never asked, but I have a horrible feeling I was Minnie’s only visitor. In spite of her disability, though, she could still read and more-or-less write. So, she kept up her endless search for more information about London. And I worked hard to decipher the nuggets of information she passed on to me. For instance, I left the care home that day, knowing that meat sold at the February 1814 Frost Fair on the frozen Thames, at the extortionate price of a shilling a slice, was known as ‘Lapland mutton’.
For lunch I got a tuna and cucumber sandwich to eat in the Yeti and while I was in the Co-op bought a copy of the Guardian. Though I get the Observer delivered at the weekend, I only buy a daily when I know I’m going to have time to read it. There are many days when work takes over and all I’m capable of when I get home is getting something basic to eat and slumping with a glass of Merlot in front of some mindless medical soap opera.
The Guardian’s front page was dominated by Ingrid Richards. A huge photograph – red hair blazing, the defiant dent of the shrapnel wound in her forehead – and tributes from famous friends and admirers – relegated all the latest international disasters and idiocies of government to second-feature status. The obituary inside spread over more than one page.
I remembered Oliver’s assertion that journalists thought they were far more important than they actually were, but the list of Ingrid Richards’ achievements justified the space she was allotted.
I was amazed at how many wars she had covered. That tall red-haired figure with a microphone reporting from a vista of shattered concrete had become so familiar on the television screen that one almost forgot that they were all different theatres of destruction. Kosovo, Chechnya, Afghanistan, Palestine, East Timor, Libya, Syria, Yemen … wherever the inhumanity of war was on display, Ingrid Richards had been there. Usually in body armour, with the strap of a leather satchel diagonally across her front.
I also found in the Guardian obituary more detail about the scar on her forehead. My basic recollection of what had happened proved to be accurate. The wound had been caused by shrapnel. Ingrid had been in Beirut in 1986, reporting on the hostage crisis, along with a BBC cameraman called Phil Dickie. They’d been filming a report when a car bomb went off only yards from where they were standing. Dickie, who’d been nearer the vehicle, had been much the more seriously injured and, in fact, his body had shielded Ingrid from the blast. But she had taken a lot of shrapnel, including the piece that had given her the trademark scar. Both she and the cameraman had survived the blast and been flown back to the UK for some months of hospitalization.
Reading the account in the obituary, I remembered coverage of the incident at the time, when I was in my early twenties. And I remembered the debate it prompted as to whether female reporters should be allowed to place themselves in danger on the front line. It would be taken for granted now, so maybe there have been some advances in gender equality. Not as many as I would wish for, though. And, coward that I am, the right to put myself in the way of bomb blasts is one that I would happily forgo.
I checked online for obituaries in the other dailies. They were all full of praise for an exceptional woman, who had repeatedly demonstrated unrivalled bravery without losing her humanity and vulnerability. It was universally thought to be a tragedy that the life of such an icon should be ended by a domestic accident.
The obituaries did not evade the fact that Ingrid Richards’ private life had also been a battleground. There were the two short-lived marriages. As she’d said to me, they ‘didn’t take’. Alexandra was mentioned fleetingly, but not the name of her father. Which I thought was slightly strange. Ingrid had told me there was no secret about it. The information was even available on Wikipedia. Maybe in the obituaries Niall Connor had been protected from being named by some old-fashioned Fleet Street omertà.
Reading so much about her, I felt honoured to have met Ingrid Richards, albeit so late in her life.
But I couldn’t get out of my mind a few sentences she had spoken during our bonding over the Jameson’s. ‘I’m extremely careful about my personal safety. My experience of war zones has taught me how to avoid avoidable risks. There are no doubt people out there who’d like to kill me – I’ve rubbed a lot of people up the wrong way in the course of my career – but there’s no way I’ll die by accident.’
Two o’clock I was due at Edward Finch’s. I arrived in Lancing early, as I always like to for an appointment, and parked round the corner from his bungalow to check the mobile. I’d heard the ping of an incoming call on the way over. I do have the facility for hands-free calls, but I find they distract me from driving, so I rarely answer until I’m parked up. Unless, of course, it’s Ben calling.
A woman’s voice had left a message asking me to call back. It was only when I got through to her that she identified herself as a police officer. A Detective Sergeant Unwin. Sounded bossy, which I guess is an occupational hazard – or indeed an essential qualification. She asked first whether I had heard the news of Ingrid Richards’ death. I assured her I had.
‘We’ve spoken to the deceased’s daughter and she said that her mother had engaged your professional services.’
‘That’s not strictly accurate, Sergeant,’ I said. ‘I only had the one exploratory meeting with her. It was Alexandra herself, not Ingrid, who contacted me. She was worried about her mother’s situation.’
‘What situation would that be, Mrs Curtis?’
‘The safety of her lifestyle.’
‘Sorry? What is it exactly that you do, Mrs Curtis?’
‘I declutter. I help people organize their possessions when they get out of hand.’
‘Oh. Is that a job?’
‘Yes, it is,’ I said, sharply. I had heard the question too often not to be defensive about what I do.
‘And you had taken on that job for the deceased?’
‘I hadn’t, no. As I said, my meeting with her on Monday was just a preliminary discussion, to see whether Alexandra was right, whether her mother did actually need my services.’
‘What conclusion did you reach?’
‘That Ingrid Richards did not need my services.’
‘Thank you, Mrs Curtis. Obviously, the reason I’m asking you these questions is because we are investigating the cause of Ingrid Richards’ death. So, are you telling me that her flat in Brunswick Square was not a fire hazard?’
‘I’m not telling you that, Sergeant, no. I think, for someone less organized than Ingrid Richards, it could have been a fire hazard.’
‘Surely something’s a fire hazard or it isn’t?’ There was the bossy to
ne again. ‘As Alexandra Richards described it to us, her mother’s flat was full of old newspapers and magazines. Is that not true?’
‘It is true, but—’
‘Alexandra Richards also said that her mother was virtually a chain-smoker and a very heavy drinker. Are those facts not true either?’
‘No, they’re true. And, as I said, someone else in those circumstances might have been a danger to herself and others. But I got the impression that Ingrid Richards was very much in control of the way she lived.’
‘What gave you that impression, Mrs Curtis?’
‘She told me she was.’
That made Detective Sergeant Unwin chuckle. ‘Yeah, but old people are like that. They never realize when they’re losing it. Take my mother-in-law and her driving. She’s nearly ninety, she thinks she’s still safe on the roads, but she’s a bloody liability.’
This was more information than I required. I had no interest in the woman’s mother-in-law.
‘Listen, Mrs Curtis,’ she went on before I could say anything, ‘Alexandra Richards suggested we should contact you because you had recently inspected the Brunswick Square property …’
‘Hardly “inspected”. I just went for a chat with—’
‘But, in the course of your work, Mrs Curtis, you must see the homes of many people with hoarding problems.’
‘Of course I do.’
‘And, in some cases, you must see situations where the hoarding has created fire hazards?’
‘I certainly have.’
‘So, in your professional capacity, you would very definitely recognize a fire hazard when you saw one?’
‘Yes.’
‘All I need from you, Mrs Curtis, is confirmation of what we were told by the deceased’s daughter, Alexandra Richards, that her mother’s flat was a fire hazard.’
‘Well …’
‘Was it, Mrs Curtis?’
It was too difficult to explain Ingrid Richards’ mature awareness of the risk and her resolution not to succumb to it.
‘Yes, Sergeant,’ I said wretchedly.
When he opened the door to me, there was something both smug and shameful in Edward Finch’s manner. He was like a little boy who knew he had been naughty but was rather proud of his naughtiness.
I soon realized what had happened. The cardboard boxes I had so carefully packed with his dead wife’s clothes two days before were no longer in the hall. No, that’s not quite accurate. The boxes were there in the hall, but they had had the tape holding them in shape cut through. They were once again flattened, just as I carried them in the Yeti. And of their contents there was no sign.
Wordlessly, Edward led me through the door at the end of the hall that opened on to the master bedroom. The clothes had been draped back over the bed and floor, exactly as they had been before I collected them up and packed them.
‘I’m sorry, Ellen,’ he said. ‘I just couldn’t do it.’
TEN
It would have been different if Edward Finch had been referred to me by the social services. Then I would have felt I had to sort out his problem. But he’d contacted me off his own bat. He’d asked for my advice; I’d given it and he had chosen to disregard it.
I didn’t think his situation was worse than that of any other bereaved husband. And he had the advantage of the devoted Cara to help him out. However much he disparaged what she did for him, she ensured that his living conditions didn’t descend into total squalor.
So, I told Edward Finch that unless he was prepared to change his attitude, I couldn’t help him any more. If he decided he could change, then he should contact me again.
I also said that I would invoice him for the two visits I’d made after the initial consultation. I hadn’t got time to waste with habitual time-wasters.
‘Do you fancy another meeting on the beach at Littlehampton?’ Alexandra’s voice sounded unaccountably cheerful, even jaunty.
‘Well, yes. That’d be fine.’ By the Friday, I was desperate to talk to someone about the death of Ingrid Richards, but there had really been no reason for me to contact her daughter. Except maybe to offer condolences. So, I was glad that Alexandra had rung me.
‘Even better,’ she said, ‘why don’t I buy you lunch at that nice East Beach Café?’
The lunch was very good. Given the location, it was no surprise that the menu featured a lot of seafood. Excellent seafood, imaginatively cooked.
Alexandra was keen on the idea of sharing a bottle of white wine and disappointed when I said no. I don’t drink at lunchtime during the week. Preservation of my driving licence again. And preservation of the focus I need for work. Alexandra suggested that I should just have one glass, but again I said no. If I had one, I’d want another. In such circumstances, I always find it easier not to drink at all. Sorry if that sounds priggish.
‘So,’ I suggested, ‘I’ll raise a glass of sparkling mineral water to Ingrid’s memory.’
‘Fine,’ she said, a little grudgingly as she ordered it, along with a glass of Pinot Grigio for herself.
‘I am, incidentally, Alexandra, very sorry about your mother’s death.’
‘Oh yes. Thank you.’ She didn’t sound interested in my condolences. ‘So far as I’m concerned, it’s just a huge relief.’
The force with which this was said made me wonder whether Alexandra had already had a drink that morning. Though it’s a common instinctive reaction, there is still an atavistic taboo about admitting one is pleased by the death of a family member.
She seemed to remember that and attempted a cover-up by saying, ‘All I mean is that I’m glad Ingrid went while she was still more or less in control of her faculties. She would have loathed the gradual degeneration of age, hated not being able to do the things she enjoyed doing. The thought of Ingrid in a care home … well, it doesn’t bear thinking of. She always said she wanted a quick sudden death that she knew nothing about.’
I wondered how closely being incinerated in a top-floor flat fitted that definition, but I didn’t say anything, as Alexandra went on, ‘Ingrid would have hated losing control.’
‘Wouldn’t you say,’ I suggested, ‘that allowing her flat to burn down from what … an inadequately stubbed-out Gauloise … meant that she was already losing control?’
‘Perhaps.’ The drinks arrived. Alexandra immediately took a long swallow from hers. I didn’t think it’d be the only one she had over lunch.
Then she said, ‘Of course, because of the way things happened, you never did report back to me about whether you thought Ingrid needed your decluttering services.’
‘Sorry. I was busy the next day and—’
‘No worries. I think we left it that I was going to ring you, anyway.’ She took another substantial swallow of Pinot Grigio. ‘She liked you, you know.’
‘What?’
‘Ingrid. She really liked you. When you went to see her. And she wasn’t a woman to take an instant liking to everyone, so that’s quite an accolade.’
‘I’m suitably honoured.’ And I was. I had been instantly at ease with Ingrid Richards, but I wasn’t convinced until then that the feeling had been mutual.
‘What, incidentally, Ellen, was your professional view?’
‘As to whether your mother needed the services of a declutterer?’
‘Yes.’
‘Right. My professional view was that, had I been inspecting the premises of anyone of that age other than Ingrid, I would have recommended some tidying up for safety reasons. With your mother, though, I thought she was more than capable of looking after herself. I would not have advised taking any decluttering action.’
‘Hm.’ Alexandra grinned wryly. ‘Well, you were wrong, weren’t you? As it turned out.’
I hadn’t really thought of that before. But I suppose, by any objective analysis, she was right.
The waitress arrived to take our order. Before food was mentioned, Alexandra swallowed down the remains of her Pinot Grigio and asked for another.
We both went for fish and chips. Dodgy choice in some pubs in the area, where you get presented with a strip of battered cardboard. But I knew they did them very well at the East Beach Café.
‘So,’ I said, ‘you spoke to Ingrid after my visit?’
‘Yes. On Tuesday. God, that seems an age ago now.’
‘Tuesday? The day she died?’
‘That’s right. Well, I haven’t heard what time the fire was reckoned to have happened. I supposed she could have died on the Wednesday morning.’
‘But you rang her on the Tuesday?’
‘Better than that. I went to see her on the Tuesday. Dutiful daughter or what?’
I couldn’t stop myself from asking, ‘What time of day did you see her?’
Fortunately, Alexandra didn’t notice that this question belonged more in the category of interrogation than casual enquiry. I still wasn’t convinced Ingrid Richards’ death had been an accident and was hungry for any information I could get about her last hours.
‘Early evening,’ she replied. ‘Round six thirty, I suppose.’
‘And did she behave unusually in any way?’
‘What do you mean?’
‘Well, did she say anything that was unexpected?’
‘Sorry?’ Her second Pinot Grigio arrived. She took a healthy swallow from it. I wondered if this was a taste she’d inherited from her mother. Alexandra grinned with sudden realization. ‘Oh, I see. You’re asking if she said anything about wanting to top herself?’
That wasn’t what I’d been asking. The thought hadn’t occurred to me. And I’m extremely sensitive on the subject of suicide.
‘No,’ I replied. ‘I just wondered if she’d talked about … I don’t know … other visitors she was expecting that evening …?’
I’d tried to make the question sound disingenuous, but it prompted a sharp look of suspicion. ‘No, she didn’t,’ Alexandra said firmly. ‘Incidentally, Ellen, have the police been on to you?’