All Things Nice

by Sheila Bugler

  ‘Her daughter’s boyfriend?’ Ellen said.

  Ger shrugged. ‘Why not? She must get lonely sitting in that big old house waiting for a husband who never comes home to her.’

  ‘Okay,’ Ellen said. ‘So let’s say there was something going on between Charlotte and Kieran. That would explain the text. If Nick found out, it would explain why he didn’t turn up at her birthday party. And if he thought Burton – his daughter’s boyfriend – was shagging his wife, there’s our motive.’

  ‘It’s a motive for Freya, too,’ Ger said. ‘If she knew about it. But that’s all we’ve got. If, if, if. We need more. Call Pritchard. Get an update on the PM. The tech team are going through Burton’s computer and online profile. He didn’t seem to be big on social media, but he had a cloud storage account which he used for college stuff and photos. Lots of photos, apparently.’

  ‘I saw some of them on his phone,’ Ellen said. ‘Landscapes, I think.’

  ‘River scenes,’ Ger said. ‘I was going to ask you to look through them all. Pritchard first, though.’

  Ger had obviously forgotten Ellen wasn’t meant to be here. Which was good. Ellen would much rather be here, in the thick of things, than spending time alone with her own thoughts.

  Mark answered the phone straightaway.

  ‘Ellen. I was just about to call you. I finished the PM on your bloke this morning. Bloody starving now. I don’t suppose you’re free to meet for lunch? I can go through the PM with you then.’

  Ellen was ‘bloody starving’ herself. The thought of lunch with Mark was tempting, but she had so much to do.

  ‘I’d love to,’ she said. ‘But I can’t. Not if I want to get out of here in time to see my kids before they go to bed.’

  ‘Ah well,’ Mark said. ‘Another time, maybe?’

  ‘Sure,’ Ellen said. ‘So, what have you got for me?’

  ‘The killer got it right first time,’ Mark said. ‘Single knife stroke through the lower thoracic wall, puncturing the lower right ventricle. He would have died pretty quickly.’

  ‘Would the killer have known what they were doing?’ Ellen asked.

  ‘Difficult to say,’ Mark said. ‘A few centimetres either side and there’s a chance the knife would have hit bone, preventing it from going too far in. On the other hand, he’d still have died unless he got medical treatment pretty quickly. Even if our killer completely missed the heart, no one found him until the next morning. He’d still have been dead by then.’

  ‘If I was trying to kill someone,’ Ellen said, ‘I’m not sure I’d know how to make sure I hit the heart first time.’

  ‘That’s reassuring,’ Mark said. ‘The killer used a knife with a thick blade. Similar to many of those you’ve seen in other knife killings recently. Apart from one thing.’

  ‘What’s that?’

  ‘With most of the stabbings across Lewisham,’ Mark said, ‘the killer has used a hunting knife. It’s the most common knife used in gang killings, for example. Sorry, you know that already. With Kieran Burton, the knife had a smooth blade. You can tell from the wound.’

  A moment ago she’d been starving. Now, Ellen felt as if she would never want to eat again.

  Mark had nothing else useful to tell her and Ellen finished the conversation and went to find Abby. She wanted to make it perfectly clear that she would be here all day. This was Ellen’s case and she wasn’t about to sit back and let Abby try to take it from her.

  Six

  There were too many people crowded into the flat. Freya couldn’t move, could barely breathe. Stevie and Anna were in the kitchen making some sort of vegetarian curry that was stinking the flat out and she knew would taste of nothing except cauliflower and curry powder. Alex and Paula hovered around the sitting room, treating her like she was some sort of mad woman in an attic about to crack up. Slash and Johnno and Mac were all sitting on the floor, backs against the wall, passing a joint back and forth between them, stoned and talking several shades of shit.

  Freya wanted to scream at them all to go away and leave her in peace.

  ‘I’ve made some more tea.’

  Alex was back, carrying a tray and putting it on the ground at Freya’s feet. Like an offering, Freya thought sourly.

  Alex folded herself onto the floor beside the tray, crossing her long, skinny legs. She wasn’t wearing a bra, she never wore a bra, and Freya could see her skinny breasts hanging down as Alex leaned in to pour the tea. Freya looked away quickly, repulsed.

  ‘None for me,’ she said.

  ‘You sure?’

  The sympathy and kindness in Alex’s face was unbearable. Freya stood up and went into the bedroom, the only room in the house that didn’t have anyone else in it. She sat on the bed and closed her eyes. Impossible to imagine this was her life from now on. Alone in this flat that she’d never wanted in the first place. Getting onto the property ladder was Kieran’s idea. He’d convinced her, somehow, that owning their own home didn’t make them capitalists.

  ‘It gives us freedom to make some important choices,’ he’d said. She hadn’t agreed but, as always, she’d let him talk her around. And all for nothing, as it turned out. Because he wasn’t here anymore and it was up to her to make all the choices on her own.

  A knock on the bedroom door and Alex’s head appeared.

  ‘Okay if I come in?’ Without waiting for Freya to answer, Alex came and sat on the bed and put her arm around Freya’s shoulders. It took everything Freya had not to shake her off.

  ‘I’ll go if you want,’ Alex said.

  Freya shook her head. ‘It’s okay.’

  It wasn’t okay but she didn’t know how to say that without revealing what she knew. She’d promised Kieran she wouldn’t say anything. But then Alex squeezed her shoulders and it triggered such a surge of anger she couldn’t keep quiet.

  ‘Please,’ she said. ‘Don’t start pretending now that you care about me.’

  The look of hurt on Alex’s face almost made Freya want to laugh. And slap Alex’s pale, pretty face at the same time.

  ‘I know,’ Freya said.

  Alex shook her head, frowning like she had no idea what Freya was talking about.

  ‘You and Kieran,’ Freya said. ‘What? You think he wouldn’t tell me something like that? Jesus, Alex. You’re meant to be my friend.’

  ‘I am your friend,’ Alex said. ‘That’s why I … look, Freya. I don’t know what Kieran told you, but nothing happened between us. I swear to you.’

  ‘Only because he wouldn’t let it,’ Freya said.

  ‘Oh Freya,’ Alex said, voice dripping with a sickening pity that made Freya hate her more than any betrayal. ‘Is that what he told you? My poor love.’

  ‘Shut up!’ Freya jumped up and opened the door. ‘Shut up and get out. I don’t want to hear it.’

  Alex stood up but she didn’t leave the room.

  ‘Freya, don’t do this. You’re my friend. I love you very much.’

  Freya put her hands over her ears, refusing to listen to another word. Love. Alex threw the word around like loving someone was an easy, effortless thing. Like it didn’t require hard work and commitment and having your heart broken so many times it was like you could stop feeling things altogether.

  Alex, with her long legs and her perfect face and her little pert breasts, what could someone like that know about love?

  ‘He didn’t deserve you, Freya,’ Alex said. ‘I hate saying it but it’s the truth.’

  ‘Get out!’

  Freya was vaguely aware of the others coming to see what was going on. Faces peering at her, pitying her. She knew what they were thinking, what they’d always thought, but they’d been too cowardly to say it to her face when he was alive. Now he was dead it would all start. The secrets and the lies they’d hidden from her. All of them finding a quiet moment to tell her what he was really like.

  Swarming around her, murmuring their meaningless words of sympathy, pretending they were sorry for her loss when all of them –
every single one of them – really believed she was better off without him.

  Closing in on her, with their stinking smell of weed and patchouli and dirty hair. She lashed out, wanting so badly to hurt someone. To thrash her way through the glazed eyes and the swinging dreadlocks and the baffled pity on their unknowing faces. All of it spinning around her, faces and voices and smells and she was falling, spinning down and away and she could hear her own voice, shouting at them, but she sounded so far away and she didn’t know how she could stop this.

  ‘Freya.’

  And just like that, she wasn’t falling anymore. Her father was here, and his arms were around her, holding her tight, keeping her safe. Just like he always did.

  Seven

  The flat stank of curry and dope. Nick had opened the windows but it didn’t seem to make much difference. He had succeeded in kicking Freya’s friends out, but their smell remained. He should probably speak to her about the dope but now wasn’t the time. The poor kid was a mess. Nick tried to put himself in her position and knew he would be just as bad.

  ‘I wish there was something I could do,’ he said.

  They were sitting together on her small sofa, Freya curled up against him the way she used to when she was a little girl.

  ‘You’re here,’ she said.

  ‘I’m always here for you, princess. You know that.’

  His arm was around her shoulders and he twisted his wrist so he could see his watch without her noticing. Two twenty. He had to be at the apartment by three but that wasn’t a problem. He’d been here two hours already. When he told her he had to go, she would understand.

  The book he’d brought sat beside him on the arm of the sofa. A collection of poems about loss and death. One of his father’s old favourites. He wanted to read her something but when he’d suggested it she’d frowned and said a stupid poem was the last thing she needed right now. He’d been disappointed by her reaction but did his best to hide how he felt. Told himself she couldn’t know what she was thinking or saying. Maybe he’d give it another go before he left.

  After his mother died, poetry was the thing that held him and his father together. Every night, the old man would sit by little Nick’s bed and read to him. Their favourite poem was ‘When You are Old’. Dad would recite the lines, tears pouring down his face as he thought of his dead wife who would never grow old and grey.

  ‘None of it feels real,’ Freya said. ‘I mean, it’s like this sort of stuff only happens to other people. Do you know what I mean? Paula said I should do something. Like a memorial, you know? She says it’s important. What do you think?’

  Nick was thinking about later. Thinking he could be a few minutes late and it wouldn’t make any difference. Might even be better that way. Let her arrive first and get ready for him. He would text her along the way. Tell her to get undressed and start thinking about what he was going to do to her.

  ‘Dad!’

  ‘Sorry, love. What was that?’

  That was the problem with being in love. It distracted you, made it difficult to focus on the things that really mattered. Like Freya. And the fact that he’d spent his morning being interrogated by the police.

  His throat constricted at the memory. The two women – supercilious and smug – treating him like a common or garden criminal. Acting like they knew something even though he was certain they couldn’t because if they did, wouldn’t they have said?

  No.

  He had to stop this. Had to stay calm.

  The police didn’t know. This morning was nothing more than a fishing exercise. He was no more of a suspect than anyone else at this stage. Less of a suspect than Charlotte, in fact. What the hell had she been thinking? When the police told him about the text she’d sent, he’d thought at first that she knew. And in that moment, his overwhelming reaction had been relief. Because if Charlotte knew, then it was all out in the open and he could stop pretending. But no. It seemed she had no idea. So what was she playing at?

  ‘Freya, love.’

  ‘Yeah?’

  He hated doing this, knowing it might make things worse than they already were for her, but he didn’t see that he had a choice. He had to know what Charlotte was up to.

  He cleared his throat, trying to find the best way to ask her.

  ‘The police,’ he said. ‘Well, the thing is, they told me that your mother sent a text to Kieran on Friday night.’

  She didn’t say anything but he could feel her body stiffening. He wished he could see her face so he would have some idea what she was thinking. But curled into his side like this, all he could see was the top of her head.

  ‘Freya?’

  She sighed. ‘Oh Dad, you know what she’s like. She was out of her head on Friday night. Really bad. She … well, she had this fixation about Kieran. She even said … no. It doesn’t matter.’

  ‘Of course it matters,’ Nick said, forcing himself to sound calm even though he didn’t feel it. Bloody Charlotte. What the hell had she said?

  ‘Freya.’ He shook her gently. ‘You’ve got to tell me.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘It could be important. And even if it’s not, I’m your dad. I want to know so I can help you.’

  ‘Okay.’ She sniffed. ‘But I warn you, it sounds crazy.’

  ‘Crazy?’ he said. ‘Charlotte? No way.’

  At least that got a laugh.

  ‘Well there was a bit of the usual stuff,’ Freya said. ‘You know, he’s not good enough for me and I could do so much better and blah, blah, blah. But then it all got a bit weird, to be honest. She started saying he was evil and someone needed to stop him.’

  The fear again. Like fingers of ice squeezing the life from his body.

  ‘What did she mean?’ he asked.

  Freya shrugged.

  ‘Fucked if I know.’

  He winced, hating to hear her swear.

  ‘Sorry,’ she said. ‘Anyway, who cares? She was drunk and ranting. Pretty much her normal state, wouldn’t you say?’

  Drunk and ranting and violent. Grabbing a knife and lashing out at the person she wanted to hurt. The more he thought about it, the more he could see how easy it was to imagine she’d done it.

  A memory of a long ago night. A full moon, huge and yellow. Highlighting the streaks of blood on Charlotte’s arms and reflecting off the silver blade of the knife she was holding. Tears running down her face, telling him over and over again that she was sorry, she didn’t mean it, sorry.

  The fear receded. Replaced by a timid, flickering ray of hope. If the police thought Charlotte had killed Kieran, they would lock her up. She’d be out of his life once and for all.

  He shook his head, told himself he was being stupid, fanciful. Maybe. But with good reason. She’d done it before. Who was to say she wouldn’t do it again?

  Eight

  ‘It’s such a mess,’ Charlotte said. ‘And you know the worst of it? I can’t help thinking it’s all my fault, somehow.’

  ‘That’s silly,’ Ginny said.

  The wine bottle was empty. Ginny waved at Jacques, the bartender, indicating they wanted a replacement.

  Charlotte wasn’t even sure she felt like another drink. But what else was there to do? The thought of going home to that big, empty house alone was too depressing for words.

  ‘I wish I knew she was okay,’ she said.

  ‘Freya?’ Ginny asked. ‘It can’t be easy for her. Especially if things between her and Kieran haven’t been so great recently.’

  A flutter of fear in Charlotte’s stomach. She hadn’t said anything to Ginny. Had she?

  ‘What do you mean?’

  Ginny shrugged, trying to pretend it was no big deal. But Charlotte knew her too well. Knew there was something her friend wasn’t telling her.

  ‘Ginny?’

  ‘It’s nothing,’ Ginny said. ‘It’s just, when I asked her at the party how he was, she seemed … angry, I think. But maybe it was something else. She wasn’t herself at all on Friday night. I
thought it was because … oh, never mind. Listen to me, going on about nothing. What about you? Was it terrible today with the police? They’re pretty relentless, aren’t they?’ Ginny shuddered. ‘I’ve already been interviewed twice by some jumped-up little tart in a uniform.’

  Jacques appeared with another bottle of the Sauvignon Blanc. The basement wine bar had been Ginny’s idea. She’d got a thing for Jacques, the owner, and these days it was difficult to get her to go anywhere else.

  Not that Charlotte was complaining. The place had a decent wine list and never got too packed. Plus, the last few times she’d been here it had stayed open late enough to sate even her appetite for wine.

  A mellow, jazz soundtrack played in the background – Miles Davies, one of Nick’s favourites. Thinking of her husband, some of her earlier rage returned.

  ‘The police were horrible,’ she said. ‘Nick was worse, though. I swear, Ginny, he’s acting like he thinks I actually killed Kieran myself. And part of me can’t blame him for that. Because he knows what I’m capable of.’

  Ginny put her hand over Charlotte’s.

  ‘Listen to me,’ she said. ‘That’s all in the past, Lottie. The only people who know what happened that night are you, your mother, me and Nick. Your mother’s dead and there is no way in the world I’ll ever speak about it. Nick won’t either. He cares too much about his precious reputation. And that leaves you. You can’t bring that up now. You do understand, don’t you?’

  Charlotte nodded. She knew Ginny was right. It was just so hard. She’d thought about little else ever since she’d heard how Kieran had died.

  ‘Maybe if he’d been killed some other way,’ she said. ‘It would be easier to separate the two things.’

  Ginny refilled both their glasses and replaced the bottle in the wine cooler.

  ‘You’d better find a way of doing it,’ she said.