All Things Nice

by Sheila Bugler

  ‘It doesn’t help that I can’t talk to Nick about it,’ Charlotte said. ‘He acts like he hates me.’ She sniffed, letting herself be consumed by self-pity. ‘It’s silly, isn’t it? I thought in times of crisis, couples were meant to pull together. But it’s like this has had the opposite effect. However bad things were before, they’re a million times worse now. You know what he told me? He said if I hadn’t been such a drama queen and insisted on having a party that no one wanted, then there was every chance Kieran would still be alive. How callous is that?’

  Ginny held Charlotte’s hand tighter. ‘Darling, I know we’ve had this conversation before, but don’t you honestly think your life would be so much better if you left him? The man’s a total bastard and he treats you so badly. Has he told you where he was on Friday and Saturday night yet?’

  Charlotte pulled her hand away, resisting the urge to cover her ears. Why did Ginny have to start on about all that, now of all times?

  ‘Don’t,’ Charlotte said. ‘I can’t talk about it. You know that.’

  It was so easy for Ginny, who ditched husbands at the drop of a hat. Charlotte wasn’t like that. She’d been brought up to believe in marriage and, by God, if it was the last thing she did, she would make her own one work. Because without her marriage, what was she? Nothing.

  ‘Okay,’ Ginny said. ‘Sorry. Let’s talk about Kieran instead. Do the police have any suspects yet?’

  ‘Apart from me, you mean?’

  ‘They don’t really suspect you,’ Ginny said. ‘You know that. They’re just going through the motions. It’s something they have to do, I expect.’

  She wished she could tell Ginny that it wasn’t that simple. That she’d done something so stupid she would regret it for the rest of her life. And then she’d compounded it by sending him a bloody text saying she needed to see him. She tried – again – to trawl through her memories of Friday night, wondering at what point she’d got so desperate that she’d sent the text. Nothing came to her, though. Again. All she could remember was the sudden, blinding clarity that came with her decision to tell Freya to leave Kieran. She’d been so certain it was the right thing to do.

  ‘We had a row,’ Charlotte said. ‘Kieran and I. Do you remember that?’

  Ginny frowned. ‘I don’t remember seeing Kieran at the party at all. Are you sure about that?’

  ‘Maybe I rowed with him outside somewhere,’ Charlotte said. ‘I’m not sure.’

  ‘If you’re not sure,’ Ginny said, ‘then how do you know it’s what you did?’

  ‘Freya told me,’ Charlotte said. ‘She said I was really angry with him about something.’

  Ginny opened her mouth to speak, then seemed to change her mind at the last moment.

  ‘What?’ Charlotte asked. ‘What’s the problem?’

  ‘Nothing,’ Ginny said. ‘I’m just thinking, if you did have some sort of argument, chances are the police will hear about it sooner or later. If I was you, I’d speak to Freya as soon as possible and find out what the hell she’s talking about.’

  ‘You think it’s important?’

  Ginny grabbed her hand and squeezed it tight. ‘He’s been murdered, Lottie. Of course it’s important. Believe me, you’ll want to be ready with a story by the time the police come knocking on your door, asking why the hell you argued and did it make you so angry you decided to kill him?’

  Charlotte took a slug of wine as she tried to think of something funny to say that would lighten the mood. Nothing came to her. Instead, all she could think of was the one thing she couldn’t say, not to Ginny, not to anyone. That she had loathed Kieran Burton more than any other human being and that the absence of his painful presence in her life was a thing to be celebrated, not mourned.

  Nine

  At eight o’clock, Abby saved the file she was working on and switched off her PC. She pushed her chair away from the desk and stood up, rolling her shoulders, stiff from hours hunched over the computer keyboard.

  The office was quiet at this time in the evening. Apart from Abby, the only other person still here was Alastair. Nothing unusual about that; Alastair was always here. Abby walked to the door and glanced down the corridor. The door to Ger’s office was open, meaning the boss was still here too.

  Abby walked along the corridor towards the toilets, slowing down as she passed Ger’s office, hoping to be noticed. It worked.

  ‘Still hard at it?’ Ger called.

  ‘I really want to be on top of things,’ Abby said. ‘Ellen’s always said the first two days of a murder investigation are the most important.’

  Ger smiled as if Abby had said something funny. ‘Why’s that?’

  ‘Everything’s still fresh,’ Abby said, feeling defensive even though she was pretty sure there was no need. ‘Not just for those affected by the crime. For us too, the people doing the investigation. As a case drags on, we get tired and it becomes harder to believe you’ll ever find the person you’re after. In the beginning, you believe – really believe – that you can solve the case. And something about that feeling makes you see things more clearly. You’re less constrained somehow.’

  She trailed off, uncertain again. But Ger nodded like she understood. Abby was glad she hadn’t sounded completely stupid.

  ‘Makes sense to me,’ Ger said. ‘So, where does that leave us with this investigation? What insights can you share with me?’

  ‘There’s something off between Freya and her mother,’ Abby said.

  ‘Lots of mothers and daughters don’t get along,’ Ger said. ‘Come in, Abby. You make me feel like a headmistress standing in the doorway like that.’

  Abby did as she was told.

  ‘It might not matter,’ she said, sitting down when Ger pointed to the empty chair. ‘But it’s what I was talking about, the different way of seeing things. I think it might matter but I’m not sure why. Not yet.’

  ‘You think Charlotte could have killed him?’ Ger asked.

  ‘I think either of them could have,’ Abby said. ‘Or neither. Charlotte seemed almost unhinged yesterday. And I don’t think it was just shock. There’s something hysterical about her. Freya’s nothing like her. She’s some sort of lefty activist and I can’t imagine her mother shares any of her political views. Sorry, I’m rambling. It’s difficult to get a feel for what they’re really like. The only real thing I picked up was the tension between them.’

  ‘Well I don’t need to tell you that you shouldn’t focus solely on that,’ Ger said. ‘But you shouldn’t ignore it, either. If you’ve got that feeling, Abby, it’s there for a reason. Don’t ignore it. Anything else?’

  Abby shook her head. ‘I was thinking I might pop by the Meridian. The wine bar in Hither Green? It’s near The Station pub. Do you know it?’

  Ger smiled. ‘You asking me out for a drink?’

  ‘No,’ Abby said. ‘I mean, if you’d like that, then sure, of course. The Meridian is where Freya works. I thought if I go over there this evening, I might be able to chat to some of the locals, see if I can dig up anything on Freya.’

  ‘Good idea,’ Ger said. ‘I’d offer to come with you but I’m about to head home. My husband’s been sending texts, asking if I remember I still have a family. Cheeky bugger. Is Alastair around?’

  Abby nodded, confused by the sudden change of subject.

  ‘Take him with you,’ Ger said. ‘He needs to get out more. Thanks for the update, Abby. I’ll see you in the morning.’

  Abby knew when she was being dismissed. She stood up, said goodnight and left. The prospect of dragging Alastair to the pub with her didn’t appeal but she knew better than to disobey a direct order.

  She went back into the open-plan office half-hoping he’d be gone home. No such luck. There he was, long body hunched over his PC, lost in his own world of whatever it was he did.

  ‘Al?’

  He looked up, blinked at her and seemed to take a moment to recognise her.

  ‘You okay?’ he asked.

  She to
ld him where she was going and repeated Ger’s instructions that he was to go with her. She’d expected him to protest and was surprised when his frown lifted and he smiled instead.

  ‘A pint on a Sunday night?’ he said. ‘With you? I’d love to. Thanks so much for asking.’

  ‘It’s not a date,’ she said quickly. ‘I only asked you because the boss thinks it would be good for you. She thinks you don’t get out enough.’

  ‘She’s right,’ Alastair said. ‘And don’t worry, Roberts. I know it’s not a date. If I thought that for a second, I’d have said no. You’re so not my type.’

  * * *

  The phone was ringing. Ellen barely heard it through the din her children were making, shouting over each other as they attempted to tell her about their day. She slid past them, their voices following her out of the sitting room and into the hall.

  She’d been expecting the phone call. Her parents had phoned at the same time every evening since they’d been away. They were back in Ireland, their first trip together since Ellen’s wedding in Westport fourteen years earlier.

  ‘You’re not missing us too much, I hope?’ her father said when she answered the phone.

  Guilt gnawed her insides. Truth was, she wasn’t missing them half as much as she’d expected. Work, kids and her unhealthy obsession with Noreen all taking up her time and emotional energy.

  ‘We’re coping,’ Ellen said. The gnawing turned into a savaging. ‘Don’t worry about us. Tell me about Cormac.’

  Cormac Flanagan, her father’s older brother, was losing what was left of his life to Alzheimer’s. Cormac was the reason for this holiday. When his wife called Ellen’s parents with the news, Ellen insisted on paying for them to go back and see their families. If she’d hoped the gesture might make her feel better about herself, it hadn’t worked.

  ‘We had a good day today,’ Ellen’s father said. ‘One of the few, I’m afraid. Anyway, who wants to talk about that? Put me on to one of the children, would you?’

  The phone was passed around from Pat to Eilish to Sean to Terry. When everyone had had a turn, Ellen got the phone back, told her parents there was no need to call every night – as if it made any difference – and hung up before they’d spent their entire holiday money on a single phone call.

  ‘We should have done this years ago,’ Sean said. ‘Paid for them to go back, I mean.’

  ‘We tried,’ Ellen said. ‘Don’t you remember? Dad always refused to consider it. And Mum would never go back on her own.’

  ‘Why’s that?’ Terry asked.

  They were seated around the country farmhouse-style table in the homely kitchen at the back of the house Ellen was renting while her own house was being rebuilt.

  ‘I think he finds it too difficult,’ Ellen said. ‘In his heart, he’s never really left Ireland. Going back is a reminder that he’s an outsider now. He’s lived more of his life out of the country than in it. So each time he goes there he’s more and more of a stranger.’

  She thought of her own life. How, apart from those early, difficult years, she’d never lived anywhere but Greenwich. Never wanted to, either.

  ‘We’re lucky,’ she said. ‘We’ve never had to leave a place we love to start a new life somewhere else.’

  ‘It’s hardly like they moved to the other side of the world,’ Pat said. ‘It’s not that different, is it? Ireland, I mean.’

  Before Ellen could answer, the front door banged open followed by the clatter of someone in the hallway.

  ‘Ellen? Hiya! Are you there?’

  Ellen caught Sean’s eye and smiled.

  ‘In the kitchen,’ she called to Rosie.

  Heels click-clacked loudly on the parquet flooring and a vision in fuchsia and blue burst into the kitchen. Rosie was home.

  ‘Here you all are! Sean and Terry, too. Cool. What do you think of my hair, lads? Isn’t it brilliant?’

  ‘It’s blue,’ Ellen said, when she could get her mouth to work.

  ‘Like Katy Perry!’ Eilish squealed. ‘Mummy, can I get my hair like that too? Please?’

  Rosie pirouetted around the kitchen while the children gathered around her, reaching up to touch her cropped blue spikes. When she’d left yesterday morning, the same hair had been shoulder-length, brown and glossy.

  ‘Your parents will kill me,’ Ellen said.

  ‘What’s wrong with you?’ Sean asked. ‘She’s young and beautiful and her hair looks amazing. Leave the kid alone, Ellen.’

  ‘I’m meant to be looking after her,’ Ellen said. ‘And you know what Caroline and Martin are like.’

  ‘Mum and Dad will love it,’ Rosie said. ‘Okay, maybe not. But they won’t have to see it. I’ve no intention of going home any time soon and I sure as hell don’t want them coming over here. I bet you don’t either, right? So it’s grand. By the time they get to see me again it’ll be back to the way it was.’

  Ellen laughed. It was impossible not to love her. Something Rosie knew only too well and used to her full advantage.

  ‘Rosemary Kelly,’ she said. ‘You have no intention of growing out that blue hair now or anytime soon. Besides, aren’t you due to Skype them later this evening?’

  Rosemary winked at Sean. He winked back.

  ‘Should never have taken a job working for a detective. Impossible to pull the wool over this one’s eyes. You’re right, Ellen. I am due to Skype them. In fact, I’m going to head upstairs and do it now. Get it over and done with. Wish me luck!’

  As Ellen listened to Rosie’s footsteps banging up the stairs, through the house and to the loft room at the top, she felt a sudden, sharp loss, like something terrible had just happened. She knew what it was. More than either of her children, more than any other member of the Kelly clan, Rosie reminded Ellen of her dead husband. Being with Rosie, Ellen was reminded – again and again – of what she’d lost.

  Ten

  The Meridian was a small wine bar outside Hither Green station, standing alongside a flower shop and a café. The place was busy when Abby and Alastair turned up. Squeezing their way through the Sunday night drinkers, they found a clear corner near the bar.

  ‘So,’ Abby said as they waited to get the barman’s attention. ‘Who exactly is your type?’

  ‘I’ll need a few pints inside me before you’ll get that sort of information out of me,’ Alastair said, tapping the side of his nose. ‘This place is mobbed, hey? Not my idea of a quiet pint. The Dacre. Now there’s a proper pub. No TV, no loud music and no bloody crowds.’

  ‘I don’t like pubs,’ Abby said. ‘Prefer wine bars.’

  ‘Why doesn’t that surprise me?’ Alastair said. ‘Ah, here we go.’

  The barman – tall, good-looking, early twenties – smiled as he approached. Stopped smiling pretty quickly when Abby produced her warrant card and asked to speak to whoever was in charge.

  ‘Is this about Freya’s fella?’ he said. His accent was pure Liverpool and reminded Abby of Sam.

  ‘Is there somewhere we could go that’s a bit quieter?’ Alastair asked.

  He pointed to a door behind the bar. ‘Office is in there. Come on through and I’ll get Alan, the manager. He’s around somewhere. I’ll find him and tell him you’re here.’

  Thanking him, Abby and Alastair walked around the bar. The door opened into a surprisingly large office with two ugly black leather sofas and a TV screen hooked up to a camera that gave a good view of the busy bar.

  ‘Take a seat,’ the guy said. ‘Ben won’t be long.’

  ‘I remember when this place was a real dump,’ Alastair said once they were seated, side by side, on one of the sofas.

  ‘The bar or the area?’ Abby said.

  ‘Both,’ Alastair said. ‘Ach, Hither Green’s always been all right but it’s changed a lot in the last few years.’

  ‘Everywhere in London has changed,’ Abby said.

  ‘Five years ago,’ Alastair said, ‘an area like this, you’d find teachers and key workers living here. They’re all being pu
shed out by the bankers and the doctors and the lawyers who like the area because it’s close to central London and the houses are affordable – by their standards – for Zone 3. It’s a crying shame, Abby, I tell you. You live in Docklands, right? How do you find that? Can’t see the appeal myself.’

  ‘I love it,’ Abby said. ‘But I won’t be there for much longer. My flatmate’s bloke is moving in so I have to move out.’

  ‘Ah,’ Alastair said. ‘Sorry I asked.’

  Through the open door, Abby could see the Liverpool barman talking to another, older man with dyed blonde hair and a tan. She hoped he was the manager. She didn’t know how much longer she could carry on with this stilted conversation. It had always been this way between them. Everyone else in the team she had a great relationship with. Alastair, of course, was adored by her colleagues. She just couldn’t feel it and suspected that was because he didn’t like her. He hid it well enough and had never been anything but civil to her. But when he was with her, he held back in a way he didn’t seem to with anyone else.

  ‘What about you?’ she asked. ‘Where do you live?’

  ‘Wapping,’ Alastair said. ‘I love it. If I couldn’t live there, I don’t think I’d live in London at all.’

  Abby glanced at him, wondering if he was taking the piss. His face looked serious but even still … Wapping had to be one of the coolest, most expensive places to live in the city. Nothing about Alastair said cool or money.

  ‘Wapping?’

  He smiled. ‘No need to sound so surprised.’

  She would have said more but the blonde man was here now, face fixed into one of the fakest smiles Abby had ever seen.

  ‘Ben Lowe, pleased to meet you both.’

  Abby and Alastair introduced themselves and waited while Ben sat down opposite them.

  ‘Fergus is sorting out some drinks,’ Ben said. ‘Sorry you’ve had to wait so long. We’re very busy, as you can see. And with no Freya tonight we’re a person down. Terrible news about poor Kieran. How can I help?’

  ‘Did you know Kieran?’ Abby asked.