Past Mortem

by Ben Elton

  ‘Political? He worked at Anne Hathaway’s Cottage, didn’t he?’

  ‘Ah, but it turns out that the heritage museum world is a very small one. Small, incestuous and as prone to bitching, jealousy and backbiting as any other walk of life. Very intense lot, curators.’

  ‘Who’d have thought it?’

  ‘It’s the world, isn’t it? Everything’s the same. Same crap, different toilet.’

  ‘Nicely put.’

  ‘Bradshaw was a manipulator and a stirrer,’ continued Natasha. ‘He got on to all the committees and spoke at all the conferences, constantly building little power bases and forging and reforging alliances. Weird, eh? He was the Stalin of local tourism. It’s all about funding, of course — who gets it and how much, and Bradshaw was master of bullying committees into putting cash into his area. It made him enemies.’

  ‘All the same, I can’t see anybody torturing a man and starving him to death because he managed to win a local council tourism grant.’

  ‘People have killed for less. A lot less.’

  ‘True. D’you think there’s any actual food in these donuts, or is it all E numbers?’ enquired Newson.

  ‘Don’t be ridiculous. Why d’you think they taste so nice?’

  ‘But the gap between ‘This is delicious,’ and, ‘Oh God, I wish I hadn’t done that,’ is so short.’

  ‘All the more reason to enjoy it while it lasts,’ Natasha replied, selecting her second, a pink one with green sprinkles. ‘Anyway, apart from the whole tourism political thing, we also picked up one or two accusations of sexual harassment. I got put on to a seventeen-year-old girl who’d had a Saturday job at the bookstall. She claimed that Bradshaw started off giving her gifts and things, but then pretty soon he asked her to email him some holiday snaps of her on the beach. When she refused he turned sinister and set her up, or so she says. She reckons he planted money and a book in her bag and then accused her of stealing them. He also tried to blackmail her into giving him naked photos of herself, even offered to lend her a webcam to do it with. She just left her job and that was the end of it. She never heard from him again. But guess what her parting shot was to me?’

  ‘ ‘I’m glad he’s dead’?’

  ‘Her very words. How many times are we going to hear that in this investigation?’

  ‘So neither Bradshaw nor Tatum’s a particularly. pleasant person. What about Warrant Officer Spencer?’

  ‘Well, his old outfit is in Afghanistan at the moment, so we haven’t been able to conduct any interviews face to face, but I emailed some questions to the local red-caps and they’ve been quite helpful. Quite glad to be involved in a bit of proper policing, I think, instead of just dealing with drunks. Anyway, yet again we have a picture of a man who was by no means everybody’s cup of tea. He was admired as a tough soldier, but also loathed and feared by the men under him. It seems he believed the only way to toughen a soldier up was to half kill him. You know the sort — if they can survive me, they can survive anything.’

  ‘Not such a popular attitude in our modern caring and inclusive armed forces.’

  ‘No, and Spencer nearly lost his stripes on a number of occasions for brutalizing squaddies. The bloke who played the kazoo at his funeral had been forced to lick the entire squad’s boots clean for allegedly turning up on parade with a scuff on his own.’

  ‘Nasty.’

  ‘So, anyway, that’s it. Overall, I’d say that your hunch holds up, although much more with Bradshaw and Spencer than with Tatum.’

  ‘But nonetheless all five of our victims were to a greater or lesser degree shits.’

  ‘Yes. What we seem to have here is a serial killer with taste.’

  NINETEEN

  The following day was the day of the reunion, which had been arranged most efficiently by Christine Copperfield, who had sent numerous round-robin emails with questions and instructions. She still had not mentioned Helen Smart’s internet attack on her, so clearly she had decided to ignore it. Everyone else must have done so too, because Christine was promising a fine turn-out at the Hyde Park Hilton, where the gathering was due to take place from one o’clock.

  Check this out, guys! I got the room for NOTHING. Yay! How cool is that? They’re happy to give it us for the profit on the bar. So NO Bring A Bottle please or they will chuck us out! I’m thinking of YOU, Pete Woolford. I remember the way you used to sneak booze into school parties. Mind you, I shouldn’t complain, you always gave me a swig (what WERE you after??) Anyway, as I say, the room is free but there will be a ten pound charge for lunch nibbles. I chose their Number Two Corporate Finger Buffet: mini Yorkshires with beef, scampi bites, prawn tartlets with crème fraîche, Tai spring rolls and assorted sarnies. Hope that’s cool. Finally, for those of us who are going on to the ‘How Cool Were We?’ concert (and most of us ARE — yay!), the tickets were forty pounds each. SORRY to be going on about money but hey gotta do it!

  Dannii

  Minogue is due to kick the show off at four so we’ll have LOADS of time for embarrassing reminiscences. See ya THERE!

  Newson walked into the foyer of the Hilton Hyde Park, keeping his sunglasses on and hoping that he looked cool. Glancing about, he tried to give the appearance of a man who knew exactly what he wanted and where he was going. What he was hoping was that there would be a felt board on an easel with little letters stuck to it saying ‘Class of ‘81 to ‘88 reunion’. There being no such sign, Newson approached the receptionist.

  ‘Hello, I’m looking for a room booked by Christine Copperfield? It might be under the name ‘Shalford Grant-maintained Grammar School Reunion’.’

  For some reason Newson felt embarrassed just saying it. Admitting the purpose of his visit. Perhaps it was because the girl behind the desk looked about seventeen and so would no doubt look on a school reunion as something that happened to geriatrics.

  ‘Yeah, I know,’ he said, for no particular reason. ‘Crazy, right. Rule numero uno, don’t look back. Never look back.’

  The receptionist either did not know what Newson was talking about or did not care. ‘Two hundred and three. Second floor,’ she said, directing Newson to the lift.

  As he turned away he bumped into a large man with a vaguely familiar face.

  ‘Edward?’ the man said. ‘It’s Ed Newson, isn’t it? Got to be. Can’t mistake that hair! Spewsome Newson. Jesus H. Christ. The man himself! Rock on Tommy!’

  Newson peered at the man. ‘Kieran Beattie?’

  ‘That’s right. Eatie Beattie,’ he said, slapping his substantial stomach. ‘Still on the large side, I’m afraid.’

  ‘Yes. I’m still on the short side.’

  ‘The boy is the father of the man, they say.’

  ‘Good to see you, Kieran. How long is it?’

  ‘Ay ay, oo-er, missus!’

  ‘What?’

  ‘How long is it? Very long indeed, mate, ha ha.’

  ‘I meant how long is it since we met?’

  ‘Yeah, I know. Eighteen years.’

  ‘Wow. Seems like…about eighteen years. How are you?’

  ‘OK, good, yeah, really good. Fine. Rocking. Really rocking.’

  Newson knew instantly that Kieran was not fine and most certainly not really rocking. ‘Come far?’

  ‘Just from Dagenham. I’m with Ford. Great company.’

  ‘Yeah.’

  ‘I don’t think, ha ha.’

  ‘Well, shall we go up, then?’

  ‘I suppose we’d better. You’re a policeman now, aren’t you? That’s great. I always thought there was a — ’

  ‘Height restriction? Yes, everybody thinks that. Not any more, though.’

  ‘A detective inspector. That’s pretty good, isn’t it? I mean senior.’

  ‘Sort of. Not really. Well, I suppose it’s quite…Shit, is that Sally Warren?’

  A woman in her mid-thirties had just entered the hotel, heavily pregnant and pushing a small child in a buggy. Sally Warren had been second only to Christine Copp
erfield in the golden-girl stakes, undisputed number two in the hot-babe gang. The hair was still blond but that was the best that could be said. The rest of her looks had deserted her. Some women blossom when pregnant, but it did not seem to suit Sally Warren. She looked tired, drawn and drab.

  ‘Sally?’ Newson said, approaching her.

  ‘Spewsome!’ Sally shouted, too loudly for a public place, her face lighting up at the sight of an old friend. ‘I mean, Edward! Amazing to see you. I’m so glad you came. Have you seen anyone else yet?’

  Kieran Beattie was grinning widely only a metre or two behind Newson, but Sally had looked right through him.

  ‘I’m here…Hi, Sally, it’s Kieran. Kieran Beattie.’

  It was obvious that Sally only vaguely remembered him. ‘Oh…oh, right. Kieran, yeah. Hi, Kieran.’

  ‘We didn’t know each other very well then,’ Kieran added unnecessarily.

  Because you were a fat nerd and she was a class beauty, Newson thought. The playing field had levelled somewhat since then, but Sally Warren was not going to admit to it. As far as she was concerned she still ranked way higher in the pecking order. She turned immediately back to Newson.

  ‘So, Ed, how are you? You said you’re a policeman now. A senior detective. How cool is that? What are you investigating at the moment?’

  ‘Oh, nothing much.’

  ‘Wasn’t it terrible what Helen Smart wrote about Christine! Actually, I remember when it happened. I was there, and it wasn’t anything like as bad as she says it was. We were only having a bit of fun. She always was a bit self-important was Helen Smart with her politics and all. At least you had a sense of humour about it, Edward.’

  ‘Yeah, Ed was a right laugh, wasn’t he?’ Kieran added from the distant sidelines of Sally Warren’s world.

  ‘This is Josh,’ she said, referring to the child in the buggy. ‘I had him naturally at home.’

  ‘Great. Maybe we should move on up.’

  ‘Like a sex machine,’ said Kieran Beattie.

  ‘Yes. It’s on the second floor. The lift’s over there.’

  ‘Cool bananas,’ said Sally Warren.

  ‘So how are you?’ Sally asked again, pushing the buggy towards the lift, but further conversation was suddenly rendered impossible by Josh, who exploded without warning like a grenade. Newson, who was not used to children of any age, had never heard such screaming. It was horrible and horrifying, as if the little boy’s life was draining from him.

  ‘Josh, please,’ his mother pleaded. ‘Please don’t do this. What’s wrong, darling? What’s wrong? Please don’t do this.’

  All over the hotel foyer people began to turn and look. Kieran Beattie grinned supportively. ‘I’ve got two of my own. It’s awful when they go off in public, isn’t it? I mean, you’re not allowed to hit them, so what can you do? I suppose I’m lucky because I only have them every other weekend.’

  If Sally Warren could hear Kieran Beattie above the screaming she was not interested in what he was saying. Squatting her pregnant bulk down on to her haunches, she pushed Marmite sandwiches at the little boy, who thrust them away, hurling them on to the spotlessly carpeted floor.

  ‘Want! Want! Want!’ it was possible to discern him screaming.

  ‘What, darling?’ Sally said, trying to transfer the brittle calm she was affecting across to her hysterical child.

  ‘Go back! Go back! Don’t want go that way! Go back!’

  ‘I think he didn’t want to be pushed into the lift,’ Newson suggested.

  ‘He’s doing this all the time at the moment,’ Sally said. ‘I try not to give in.’

  ‘I think perhaps you’d better.’

  ‘All right, then, darling, you want to go back.’ She tried pushing the buggy back to where it had been, but clearly this was not right either, because the screaming redoubled to truly deafening proportions.

  Newson presumed that the infant must surely have reached the edge of his envelope, but suddenly he seemed to have found a new stock of decibels that he’d overlooked before.

  ‘I had to bring him,’ his mother said miserably. ‘Babysitters cost double at weekends, and if I didn’t take him with me I’d never go out at all, would I?’

  The child was now writhing and shrieking alarmingly. Hotel staff were beginning to hover.

  ‘Is there anything we can do to help, madam?’ one asked.

  ‘No, thank you. He’ll calm down in a minute.’

  For a moment Newson shut his mind to the screaming. He half-closed his eyes and remembered a gorgeous, leggy girl of fifteen. A dancer, a runner, so cool, so confident. At fifteen she had known exactly what she was doing and where she was going. Not any more. Sally Warren did not know what to do or where to go, because her screaming child would not tell her. She was desperate. Everyone wanted her to shut her child up, and she couldn’t. ‘There’s nothing you can do when they’re like this. Nothing.’

  ‘I know. I know,’ said Kieran Beattie.

  ‘I’d better take him out, I suppose. I’ll see you up there. Wish me luck.’ She turned the buggy towards the exit doors, causing the screaming infant to find yet another notch on its volume control to make it clear that leaving the building was not on his agenda either and he didn’t care who knew it. Sally Warren looked close to tears as she smiled grimly and waddled away.

  Newson and Kieran shared the lift to the second floor. There they were directed along carpeted corridors to a room in which a chattering throng of thirty-four-year-olds, who had been thrown arbitrarily together nearly twenty-five years previously, had already assembled.

  It was indeed a good turn-out. Christine had done well. Of the seventy or so kids who had made up the two classes in Newson’s year, about half had now returned as adults.

  Christine was at the door. Her PR training served her well and on the little table next to her were neatly ordered name tags. ‘Steven Wilmot, right?’ she said to Kieran Beattie. ‘Hi, Steve! How are you?’

  ‘Kieran Beattie.’

  ‘Of course! Kieran! Of course.’ Christine gave Kieran his badge before turning instantly away from him to concentrate on Newson.

  ‘Now you are unmistakable. The very amusing and rather dashing Edward Newson. I could never forget you, could I?’ she said with a smile that would have flashed even in a darkened room.

  ‘That’s because I haven’t actually got any taller,’ Newson replied.

  She looked good, at first glance almost radiant. While the years had ground Sally Warren down, they had lifted her old friend up. Her blond hair was still long and silky, her eyes were still violet blue and her skin was still a glowing shade of copper and gold.

  For a moment, but only a moment, Newson’s mind flashed on the bleached-white figure of Farrah Porter lying in the bath. That happened to Newson a lot, murders flashing across his mind. His was a difficult job to get away from.

  Christine’s breasts had certainly grown, there was no doubt about that. He had held them briefly when she was fourteen and had last seen them (clothed) when she was eighteen, and although he remembered them as being quite lovely, nothing about them had suggested the size to which they would eventually expand. They were just about contained within a stretchy halterneck top, which made her shoulders look even more skinny than they were. The whole look was of course a bit obvious, and would not normally have been to Newson’s taste. But this was Christine Copperfield and on her it somehow looked just right. He would not have wished her to grow up any other way. She was still way out of his league, of course, but then she’d been out of his league in 1984.

  ‘You know, if you hadn’t said you’d come, Edward, I think I would have cancelled the whole thing. You were the first to reply, you know. The very first. It was almost like you read my mind.’

  ‘She leant across the table to pin his name tag to his lapel. She could scarcely have been unaware that by leaning forward she was making the most of her wonderful cleavage and that once again every boy in the class was straining for a peek
. Just as they had always done.

  Just then a big man approached the table. Newson glanced at his name tag. Paul Thorogood. The boy whom Christine had split up with at the Christmas disco of 1984. The boy Christine had caught in Guildford HMV canoodling with a slapper from the local comprehensive.

  ‘Can I get you a drink, then, Chris?’ Paul asked.

  ‘Paul, you remember Ed, don’t you? Ed Newson. Detective Inspector Ed Newson, I might say. Phew,’ she said, fanning herself. ‘Two old boyfriends at once. What is a girl to think?’

  ‘Hello, Paul,’ said Newson, noting that this was probably the first time in his life that he had ever actually spoken to this person. Man or boy.

  ‘Yeah. How’s it going, Ed? All right?’ Paul replied.

  ‘I know I cheated inviting Paul,’ Christine said, ‘because he was in the year above, but you don’t mind, do you, Ed?’

  ‘No, of course not.’

  ‘So,’ said Paul to Christine, ‘do you want a drink, then, or not?’

  ‘Oh, that’s all right, Paul. I think Ed was about to offer me one.

  ‘What? Oh, right,’ said Newson as Paul shrugged and turned away. ‘Um, can I get you a drink, Christine?’

  ‘I thought you’d never ask. A glass of champagne, please. It has to be champagne today.’

  A table in the corner of the room had been set up as a bar. As Newson made his way towards it he found himself greeted on all sides. People seemed genuinely pleased to see him, something he had not really expected.

  ‘Ed!’ said a balding man with a pleasant face. ‘Graham Brooke. Remember me?’

  ‘Graham! Of course, of course…Didn’t your profile say you were working in New Zealand?’

  ‘Yes, that’s right. South Island.’

  ‘You’ve come a long way, Graham.’

  ‘No, no. I was back anyway. I’m afraid my mother died…You remember my mother. She worked part time in the library.’

  ‘Oh yes, of course,’ Newson lied. ‘That’s very sad, Graham. I’m really sorry.’

  ‘Yes, it’s been an awful shock. She was only fifty-nine, you see. Cancer, of course. It seems to claim so many of us, doesn’t it? The best of us, I sometimes think.’