The Aladdin Trial

by Abi Silver

  ‘With Mum dying and the way she died, we’ve both been pretty upset. And then the will stuff just complicated things. I think that because of Mum it made Joe re-evaluate, you know, think about what he really wanted in life. And that’s you.’

  ‘He didn’t get home till late the night your mum died.’ Janice held her head high as she revealed Joe’s secret.

  ‘You mean…’

  ‘Yes, I lied for him – twice now, I can see. He was probably with some new bit on the side then as well – maybe that Kyla he invited along this evening.’

  ‘I don’t think so. She’s brought her boyfriend and he’s got fifteen years on my brother. And Joe’s been working pretty hard recently.’

  Janice stared at her reflection in the mirror.

  ‘Don’t worry, I won’t tell him I know about the will. Not tonight, anyway. But this is his last chance, Trace. It doesn’t matter how I feel, I do have some self-respect. If he lies to me again, about anything, I’ll leave.’

  Tracy smiled encouragingly at Janice, although the revelation that her brother had not been at home on the night her mother died was nagging at her conscience. And despite what she had said to Janice, she knew he found it almost impossible to resist the allure of a pretty girl.

  ‘Make sure you smile when you go out there,’ she said to Janice. ‘It’s your party.’

  ‘If they ask I’ll just say my feet were killing me. But the solicitor – Mr Bateman – what’s he going to do about what we signed?’

  ‘I don’t know. He said he’ll call me next week. And when he does, I’ll let you know.’

  39

  When people started to arrive at the church for Barbara’s funeral, Tracy was pleased that she’d ordered sandwiches and sausage rolls and reserved some tea urns. She had feared it might be just her and Joe and their families. Instead, there was a steady stream of people of all ages; neighbours from Barbara’s block, old artist contacts, Tracy and Joe’s own friends and at least one or two journalists.

  Barbara had shown little interest in religion, other than to wax lyrical about Eastern spirituality from time to time, usually after meeting someone foreign in a café or bar or in the park, so it had been difficult to know quite how to mark her passing. Fortunately, they had discovered a vicar who didn’t mind presiding over a service for a murdered lady he had never met and who, if she had been asked, would probably have said she didn’t believe in God. And Joe had agreed to pay upfront, muttering about how it would soon be repaid ten times over, when Tracy tried to thank him.

  Tracy sat next to Pete, followed by Luke and Taylor in the front row, and then Joe and Janice took up the remaining seats. Joe was quiet, for once, accepting condolences with a nod and a grimace, Janice stepping in to thank well-wishers in his stead.

  Brian was also there, sitting near the back of the church, his expression solemn. He had received two messages from Tracy since their telephone conversation, one on his work answerphone and the other on his mobile, politely enquiring if Barbara had left any instructions with her will about how she would have liked her service to be conducted. He had not replied.

  He focused on the coffin resting on a pedestal in the aisle, and tried to imagine Barbara lying placidly inside, arms folded across her chest, eyes closed, but it was impossible. The Barbara he knew was always bustling around, forever active, her hands constantly moving, her mouth not far behind.

  But Brian was not only unsettled because he was here at Barbara’s last send-off and was being forced to confront the reality that the brightly coloured whirlwind of a woman she had been was now contained within a wooden box, his reading of her diaries had left him confounded and shattered. It wasn’t what Barbara had written which had troubled him, it was what she had omitted to write.

  For all his years of devoted service, all the hours he had attended Barbara, both professionally and personally, all the days of work where he had ‘gone the extra mile’ to provide her with the best, without charging for it of course, and all the hours he had spent just sitting at home and thinking about her face, her smile, her laugh, she had written next to nothing. It was as if he had never existed.

  He had found only two entries, both short. On 2 March 2014 she had written ‘BB 2pm’ and on 2 April 2016 he had seen ‘Meeting 4.30 café BB’. Even the inclusion of the second ‘B’ left him cold. She hadn’t felt able to write ‘Brian’ or ‘B’ to illustrate the closeness of their relationship, she had needed his second initial to remind her of who he was.

  He had tried to be fair to Barbara, he prided himself on being an even-handed person, and he recognised that she was more of an artist with a paintbrush than a pen, the diaries were not packed with salacious stories or deep, angst-ridden confessions or poetic turns of phrase, but there were anecdotes there, spread across the years, entries with circles around them or exclamation marks to illustrate their importance and pencil sketches of countless people, pieces of fabric, newspaper snippets, lists, and he had found himself included, reduced to two initials, only twice. If he could have had some sign from Barbara that she had appreciated him even a little, he would have been satisfied.

  On top of that, his plans to return the diaries, without them being missed, had been frustrated. He had revisited Barbara’s flat yesterday evening with the books neatly repacked in his bag, only to find himself unable to unlock the door. At first, he thought he might have brought the wrong keys, but Barbara’s key ring with its weighty glass bauble filled with multi-coloured strands was impossible to confuse with his own. After several attempts he resigned himself to the fact that the locks were new and he was stuck with the offensive items, at least for now. And so he sat in the church and brooded, and a new bitterness against Barbara and her family took root.

  David Wolf sat on the third row with Jane and Hani. Buoyed up by Hani’s original advice to be more in control of the fallout from Barbara’s death, he had suggested attending the funeral, but Hani thought it a great idea and decided he should attend too, as head of the department. David had hoped that a few choice words would dissuade him. ‘Hani. Just so that you know, it is in a church. I am sure people would understand if you felt unable to attend,’ and ‘If we send too many people don’t you think it might appear as if we are worried about something?’ But Hani had brushed away all objections with a brusque ‘we are going to pay our respects, nothing more,’ so now all three of them had come.

  Judith and Constance sat in the row behind Brian, and Constance quietly pointed him out to Judith. From their vantage point they could see everyone entering and leaving. Constance had felt forced to leave behind her trusty laptop, but Judith had a small notepad on her knee in case anything of importance came up.

  Tracy had chosen a poem by Christina Rossetti to read, not because it had been a favourite of Barbara’s, but because it was one she knew and it seemed appropriate, and she managed to walk stiffly to the front of the church and address the fifty or so people, some of whom she did not recognise, with the poet’s words.

  ‘“Remember”, by Christina Rossetti,’ she announced regally.

  ‘Remember me when I am gone away,

  Gone far away into the silent land;

  When you can no more hold me by the hand,

  Nor I half turn to go yet turning stay.

  Remember me when no more day by day

  You tell me of our future that you planned:

  Only remember me; you understand

  It will be late to counsel then or pray.

  Yet if you should forget me for a while

  And afterwards remember, do not grieve:

  For if the darkness and corruption leave

  A vestige of the thoughts that once I had,

  Better by far you should forget and smile

  Than that you should remember and be sad.’

  But as Tracy read out the words, she realised they were not appropri
ate for Barbara at all, as she would almost certainly have wanted them all to think of her, and often. She might not want them to weep and wail, that was true – she had once attended the funeral of a friend in a crimson trouser suit with enormous heart-shaped earrings swinging in the wind – but she would have wanted fuss and noise and memories to be shared. And that made Tracy sad, as she had contemplated something more celebratory, had suggested to Joe that they fill the church with Barbara’s paintings (although she knew she would not include the portrait of Joe they had discovered) but he had scoffed and she hadn’t had the courage to take the idea forward alone.

  As she finished her reading and headed back down the steps to rejoin her family, the door of the church opened and a man leaning heavily on a stick entered. He was smartly dressed, wearing a camel-coloured overcoat and white silk cravat and he sported a shock of black hair. He had a small suitcase in his hand, which he deposited behind the back seats. Then he began to walk slowly down the aisle and, as everyone watched, he hovered by the coffin and rested his hand on the top, lowering his head in prayer or contemplation.

  Tracy nudged Pete. It was Miles. ‘Oh Lord,’ Pete said.

  Everyone, including the vicar, waited patiently; Miles’ shoulders heaved once, he wiped his eyes and sighed, then he took his mobile phone out of his pocket and appeared to be checking through his messages. Joe’s eyes rolled in his head and Janice caught his wrist as he began to rise out of his seat. Tracy saw him mouthing words out of place in a church and she nudged Pete to intervene, although she wasn’t sure what Pete could do, if Joe chose to confront his father.

  Miles lay the phone on top of the coffin and shuffled his way into the closest pew. Suddenly music started to play, and a song, recognised by some of the mourners, reverberated out for all to hear.

  ‘What’s the song?’ Constance asked Judith, whose foot had started tapping out the rhythm.

  ‘Oh what a scoundrel,’ Judith muttered. ‘That must be Miles Hennessy. See the hair and the clothes, oozing Californ-i-a. He’s playing Dionne Warwick, one of my mum’s favourites. It’s called “Say a Little Prayer”. It’s better than some of her other songs he could have chosen, I’ll give him that, and the sentiment is there.’

  Tracy wanted to be cross with her father, but now she heard this song, she remembered how much her mother had liked it, and it upset her that Miles had remembered when she hadn’t and that he had had the courage to act so spontaneously. But Joe’s hands were balled up into tight fists and Janice was gripping his sleeve, and Luke and Taylor were both giggling.

  The song came to an end and Miles retrieved his phone, kissed his fingers and touched the top of the coffin and then trundled forward to take his place in the front row. Tracy moved up one space to accommodate him and allowed herself to be kissed; Joe turned his head away but at least his fingers were now hanging loosely at his sides.

  ‘It’s just like the best Agatha Christie,’ Judith muttered to Constance gleefully.

  ‘How do you mean?’

  ‘Everyone is here. All the suspects in this one place. All we need now is some natural disaster, a snowstorm, to force us all to remain here for a few hours to allow you and me to solve the murder. If no one else gets bumped off before then, that is.’

  ‘I’m pleased it’s summer then,’ Constance replied with a shudder. She found the image of spending hours closeted together with these people distinctly unappealing.

  After the ceremony, Joe, Pete and four other men shouldered the coffin and the mourners followed it outside and lowered it into the ground. Brian kept his distance. He was already formulating in his head the letters he would write as soon as he returned home. His appointed agent, whom he had met in a pub in Neasden only the previous day for a debrief, had ‘come up trumps’ in terms of results. Granted, Brian had spent most of their furtive conversation reflecting ruefully that he should perhaps have given the agent more guidance at the outset, on all aspects of the parameters of his instruction including its methodology, but there was no point in lamenting that now. And the man was so pleased with his achievements (and so heavily-muscled), that Brian did not have the heart to admonish him.

  The first letter was easy; Trading Standards would receive an anonymous tip-off regarding all the illicit practices which went on at Joe’s showroom. He would lay it on thick, pretending to write on behalf of the relative of a ‘wronged customer.’ The agent had found three such people who had bought cars from Joe where the mileage was clearly too good to be true and had followed it up. The information had been obtained in a fairly unorthodox way, but Trading Standards didn’t have to know that.

  The second was more difficult, and he bore less animosity towards Tracy, although the very fact that she had so little insight into the kind of woman her mother had been that she had had to ask him for ideas for the funeral disgusted him. And she had allowed herself to be led into penury by her frivolous husband; he now knew the extent of her financial woes. All in all, she was a woman of little substance.

  And as Brian watched the men taking turns to shift the piles of earth and depositing them on the coffin, the initial rattle of dry fragments on waxed wood slowly becoming a dull thud, he knew how he could spoil things for Tracy too.

  * * *

  Tracy saw Brian for the first time, hovering near the door of the church. She waved her hand to beckon him over. She would give him the painting, his portrait, she had decided. At first, she had made the decision because she wanted to keep Brian sweet but, as the days had passed, she realised she wanted him to have it. And more than that, when she had been sifting through her mum’s drawers, she had found a sealed letter addressed to him which she would also hand over. Had Brian known her mum better than she suspected?

  * * *

  Brian noticed Tracy gesturing to him from near the grave and toyed with going over. But his bitterness was rising up inside him and he worried that he may say something untoward which would be overheard. And then he saw Miles, the impostor husband, put his arms around Tracy and whisper in her ear and he turned and walked smartly away from them all.

  * * *

  ‘He was in rather a hurry to leave, our friendly neighbourhood solicitor,’ Judith remarked to Constance.

  ‘Yes. I noticed that too.’

  ‘Overcome with affection for the deceased, or something else, I wonder? Do you think we should pay him a visit, purely for completeness?’

  Constance considered Brian’s departing figure. ‘I’m not sure. Tracy said he was very particular, so he might be the sort to put in a complaint, whatever we say or do.’

  ‘Only if he has something to hide, surely?’

  ‘Shall we go?’ Constance shivered, although the day was warm.

  ‘Oh no. I’m sure there’s so much we might overhear that would benefit our client’s case,’ Judith replied. ‘Frankly, we could do with some new leads.’ People were gradually filing back into the church, towards the food, and Judith stepped back to allow them to pass before also re-entering. ‘Why don’t you hover near Tracy and her husband and also target Joe. I’m going to mingle with some of the other guests.’

  And before Constance could object, Judith had marched off and left her alone.

  Judith positioned herself close to an older lady, with whom she could have an innocuous conversation, who happened to be standing almost back to back with Miles, who was himself leaning heavily on Janice and eating a sausage roll at the same time.

  ‘So Janice, how’s my son doing? I know better than to ask him myself,’ Miles was saying.

  ‘He’s fine, promoted to head of the Mill Hill branch,’ Janice replied.

  ‘Chip off the old block then. And sales are good?’

  ‘I think so.’

  ‘Is that his beamer I saw outside, the convertible?’

  ‘The red one, yes. Have you just flown in?’

  ‘Yes, night flight and I cam
e straight from the airport. I don’t have anywhere to stay yet. Left my bags at the back. Actually, I do need to ask a favour.’ Miles bent in even closer to Janice.

  Janice was silent, the colour draining from her lips.

  ‘I have found someone, a soulmate, after all these years. Amazing it didn’t happen sooner but, well, when the time’s right… I’ll tell Tracy, but I don’t want to tell Joe myself, especially with the timing. You will all be invited out for the wedding, to LA. Maybe in a few days, when things have calmed down, you could tell him for me?’

  Janice breathed again. She had worried that Miles wanted a bed for the night, and had anticipated the response that might invoke from Joe.

  ‘How nice. Who is she?’

  ‘Name’s Kim. She’s a gym instructor and yoga teacher. That’s how we met. I took one of her classes. It’s done wonders for my posture.’

  ‘She sounds very nice. I’m happy for you.’

  ‘So you’ll tell him, but not till I’m gone?’

  ‘Sure. Did Barbara know?’

  ‘I had mentioned it to her when we last spoke but sounds like she chose not to share it.’

  ‘We have something to tell you too, me and Joe,’ Janice said.

  ‘Oh. What is it? Am I going to be a grandfather again?’

  Janice detached herself suddenly from her almost father-in-law.

  ‘No, not that. But please keep it quiet and don’t tell Joe I told you. It is Barbara’s funeral after all.’

  Miles bowed gravely and Janice waved her ring finger in front of his face.

  ‘Me and Joe. We’re getting married too,’ she said.

  Miles beamed widely and gave Janice a big squeeze.

  ‘I’m so pleased, my girl,’ he whispered, pressing his finger to his lips. ‘In other circumstances I would suggest a double celebration but I think not in our case. Congratulations to you too.’

  * * *

  Pete and Tracy were standing together at one end of the table laid out with food, which was quickly being consumed. Pete was tucking into the sandwiches and their boys were hoovering up the sausage rolls. Tracy held only a glass of water in her shaking hand. Constance couldn’t immediately see Joe, so she stationed herself near them for now, taking out her phone and pretending to be preoccupied with her messages.