All Things Nice

by Sheila Bugler

  She scrolled through her playlists and selected a collection of schmaltzy love songs, each one triggering a slew of memories. All of them good. The collection kicked off with Frank Sinatra and the Count Basie orchestra singing ‘Fly Me to the Moon’. After that, the Count’s music was replaced by the other count, John Count McCormack. His pure, pure voice filling the space around her, wrapping her in memories.

  The song was ‘Macushla’. A soaring, heartbreaking song of love and loss. Ellen remembered Brendan, Vinny’s father, rocking Pat to sleep in his arms, singing this song to him with a voice that, although not a patch on McCormack’s, wasn’t half bad. Unlike Vinny, who couldn’t sing to save his life but sang all the time anyway, not caring how bad he sounded.

  She listened to a few more songs then went back to her notes, tried to concentrate on work. It wasn’t easy. The brief moment of relaxation had opened the floodgates. Memory after happy memory assailed her. A lifetime’s worth of happiness in such a short time.

  Enough. She had work to do and it was getting late.

  She opened the file she’d borrowed from the archives on the death of Annalise Cooper. There was a photo of the dead woman in the file. In the picture, Annalise was sitting on an armchair, wearing a white sleeveless dress. A chubby baby girl on her lap. Even at that age, the resemblance between mother and child was striking. The same dark hair, sallow skin and huge dark eyes. A beautiful young woman with a gorgeous, healthy child and her whole life ahead of her. No wonder she was smiling.

  Ellen flicked through the rest of the witness statements and detective notes. She read fast, skimming the pages so quickly that when a familiar name appeared, she almost missed it. It was a witness statement from Annalise’s cousin. The statement itself didn’t contain any new information. It claimed that Annalise and McNulty were definitely an item and there was no way the dead woman would have killed herself. There were several other signed statements in the file that said more or less the same thing. What interested Ellen, however, was the name of the witness. Virginia Rau. Charlotte Gleeson’s friend.

  On a sheet of paper, Ellen started to note down the different connections she was uncovering. Kieran Burton and Cosima Cooper were at university together. Pete Cooper and Nick Gleeson were in business together. Virginia Rau and Charlotte Gleeson were best friends. And now this. A direct link between Charlotte’s friend and Cooper’s dead wife.

  The answer to Kieran’s murder was here. Hidden in the connections that linked these people together. Ellen added another name to the list. Freya Gleeson.

  Freya and Cosima. What was Ellen missing?

  She opened her laptop and did a Google search on Cosima Cooper. No links to the usual places like Facebook, Instagram or Twitter. Nothing on Goodreads or LinkedIn, either. Cosima Cooper must be one of the few women of her generation living in the UK who didn’t use social media.

  Ellen heard the front door open and the scuffle of someone taking their jacket off. A moment later, Rosie’s blue head popped around the door.

  ‘Hey, Ellen. How’s it going?’

  Ellen smiled, her spirits instantly lifted. When she wasn’t loving every moment of Vinny’s niece living with them, she was dreading the day Rosie announced she would be leaving them.

  Ellen patted the space beside her on the sofa. ‘Come in. Tell me what you’ve been up to. I’m desperate for a bit of company.’

  Obediently, Rosie bounced across the sitting room and plonked herself on the sofa beside Ellen.

  ‘I’ve been out with my Spanish mates,’ Rosie said. ‘They’re great.’

  ‘Where did you go?’ Ellen asked.

  ‘A new bar in Deptford,’ Rosie said. ‘Real arty crowd. It was fun.’

  Rosie pointed at the photo of Annalise with baby Cosima on her lap.

  ‘A friend of yours?’

  ‘The child’s involved in a case I’m working on,’ Ellen said. ‘She’s an adult now. Actually, she’s doing a degree at Greenwich. Maybe you’ve seen her around? She’s the image of her mother.’

  Rosie grinned. ‘What? You think I know her because all us young folk hang out in the same places, is that it? No, I don’t recognise her. I mean, you’re not likely to forget a face like that, are you? She’s beautiful. Well, the mother is. If the daughter looks just like her, then I think I’d remember her. What’s she studying? Rafael’s girlfriend goes to Greenwich, I think. I could ask her about the girl if you’d like?’

  ‘No,’ Ellen said. ‘I don’t want you doing anything of the sort, thank you very much.’

  ‘Annalise Cooper,’ Rosie said, reading the name under the photo.

  ‘That’s the mother,’ Ellen said. ‘The daughter’s called Cosima.’

  ‘Nope,’ Rosie said. ‘Never heard of her.’

  ‘Best to keep it that way,’ Ellen said.

  Rosie grinned. ‘Don’t worry. I won’t do anything silly. Okay, I’m wrecked. I’m going to make myself a cup of tea. Do you want anything?’

  ‘No thanks,’ Ellen said. She picked up her phone. ‘I need to call someone.’

  ‘Grand,’ Rosie said. ‘I’ll see you in the morning. Night.’

  Ellen didn’t reply. She’d already dialled Abby’s number.

  ‘Ellen!’ Abby’s voice was light and happy.

  ‘Sorry for calling so late,’ Ellen said. ‘You never got back to me about your meeting with Rui.’

  Abby giggled. ‘I didn’t forget. I called but your phone was engaged and then I meant to try again later but by then I was running late and I didn’t want to leave Sam waiting for me. God, Ellen, I’ve had the best evening.

  ‘We went to the Shard first and then afterwards he took me to this amazing French restaurant in Bermondsey. And now he’s back here at mine and I’m not going to let him go home anytime soon.’

  Ellen couldn’t help smiling. The girl sounded so darn happy.

  ‘He bought me flowers,’ Abby said. ‘They’re so beautiful. I’ll … hang on. How can I send a photo? Do you know how to do that? I’m useless with stuff like that. Maybe Sam will know. Sam, darling? Can you come here a sec?’

  ‘Forget about the flowers,’ Ellen said. ‘How did you get on with Rui?’

  ‘Rui’s worked out the image on the jacket,’ Abby said. ‘It’s the logo for a brand called Taylor’s. Heard of them?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘I’m not surprised. Couldn’t see you in something like that. They’re outdoor clothing. Jackets and stuff. Cheap, mass-produced. I saw someone wearing one of the jackets tonight.’

  ‘So?’ Ellen said. ‘There must be thousands of people in London with a jacket like that.’

  ‘Yeah but I’ve seen it somewhere else too,’ Abby said. ‘Seeing it on that guy earlier, it reminded me.’

  ‘Of course you’ve seen it before,’ Ellen said. She was tired and grumpy and wanted to go to bed. It didn’t help that Abby was loved-up and tipsy. ‘I thought we’d just established the fact that people all over London are wearing them.’

  ‘I wish I could remember where I’d seen it,’ Abby said. ‘I think it might be important.’

  ‘Sleep on it,’ Ellen said. ‘Maybe you’ll remember in the morning.’

  ‘I’m not planning on much sleep tonight,’ Abby said.

  Ellen smiled. ‘Too much information. Just make sure you’re up bright and early tomorrow.’

  Abby groaned. ‘Oh God, Kieran’s memorial thing. I’d forgotten all about that. What time does it kick off again?’

  ‘Five am,’ Ellen said. ‘They wanted to do it as the sun rises over the river, apparently. Symbolic or some such crap.’

  ‘I called Emer Dawson earlier,’ Abby said. ‘Told her about it. That’s okay, isn’t it?’

  ‘I guess so,’ Ellen said. ‘He was her brother, after all.’

  In the background, Ellen heard a man speaking. She didn’t catch the words but they were enough to set Abby off on another round of giggles. Ellen said goodnight and hung up.

  She was old enough and wise en
ough to know when she was in the way.

  Eight

  ‘What if I’m wrong?’

  The question hung in the air, long after she’d asked it. Possibly because there was no one here to answer it.

  It stayed with her as she pulled on her heavy Giuseppe Zanotti biker boots, wrapped herself inside her new Marc Jacobs cashmere coat – so soft, so warm – and walked out into the cool London night.

  She lived in a pretty, double-fronted Georgian cottage on Point Hill in West Greenwich. The house was around the corner from her old home on Diamond Terrace, where she’d lived until her last divorce. Her ex had kept the house, and most of everything else too. She hadn’t fought him for any of it. The divorce was her fault and she knew most of his vindictive behaviour throughout the drawn-out separation was caused by heartbreak rather than innate nastiness.

  She should never have married him. Foolishly, for a short period of time, she’d allowed herself to believe in a happy ending. He was crazy about her and she thought that might be enough. The fact she didn’t feel the same way about him barely came into it. She was incapable of loving any man. It wasn’t his fault, but it wasn’t hers either. And she’d done her best, God knows. Until the day she realised she’d rather die alone than spend another day watching him slurping Alpen into his greedy mouth morning after endless morning. Or spend another night blocking him out as he lay on top of her, pretending that what he was doing was an act of love.

  She’d had an affair. With the chauffeur. An Italian Adonis, more in love with himself than anyone else. She’d ditched him the day her decree nisi came through and hadn’t looked back since.

  There were still men, occasionally. When she’d drunk enough not to care or had fooled herself, for a short while, into thinking this one might be different. They never were, and it was always a relief when the morning came and she could leave whatever bed she’d ended up in and come back home to her own, private place.

  She hadn’t always been like this. Once, a long time ago, there’d been a man she loved beyond reason. A man she would have done anything for. But he had hurt her in ways she hadn’t known possible. After him, she’d never been able to be close to anyone else. With one exception. Which was what made all of this so difficult. This thing she knew, it would destroy that person if the truth ever got out. She wanted to be wrong. More than anything, she wanted that. She’d done everything she could to convince herself she hadn’t seen what she had seen. But each time, her mind reared back from the denial.

  Her teeth ground together as she walked. Frustration making her jaw tight. She needed to think about what she would say.

  She went through the chronicle of things that had happened on Friday night. She’d been drinking, but not so much that she couldn’t remember. It took a lot of drink before her memory went. Many times in the past she’d wished that wasn’t so.

  She was nearly there. Past Blackheath Hill and making quick progress along Hare and Billet Road. She walked faster, keen to get it over with. Knowing she had to do it; didn’t really have a choice.

  At the corner of Hare and Billet Road and Mounts Pond Road, she paused, peering left and right into the dark, checking for cars before she stepped onto the road. At the same time, she heard the roar of an engine screeching into life. The sound came from her left. She swung her head around, just in time to see the glare of headlights as the car roared towards her.

  Confusion made her slow. Certain the car couldn’t be driving right at her, she paused. When she realised what was actually happening she threw herself sideways. Not fast enough or far enough. The noise of the engine was all around her now. The low, monotone roar of a sports car.

  She tried to get up. The car swerved, slammed against the side of her body. She flew back, crashed to the ground, head smashing against the kerb. Still conscious, she rolled onto her front and scrabbled forward, off the road onto the narrow pavement and the heath beyond.

  She heard the screech of brakes. Saw the car swing around. The driver’s face appeared in profile, then was gone again. Bright lights. Racing towards her. She stood up and ran forward. Right leg wasn’t working, wouldn’t hold her weight. She fell over. Tried to keep going, dragging herself forward on her stomach.

  If she could just make it onto the grass, maybe she’d be okay. She inched forward, screaming in pain and fear. The noise from the engine drowned out her voice.

  As the weight of the car rode over her, a single thought came to her in a flash of certainty. She had her answer. She hadn’t been wrong. She knew who had killed Kieran Burton and why. The weight of the car pushed down on her and the knowledge of what she knew disappeared. And with it, everything else as well.

  Wednesday

  One

  The memorial for Kieran took place on the edge of the Thames early Wednesday morning. It was another dull day, the rising sun hidden behind a grey blanket of sullen clouds. The whole affair was miserable enough to make Ellen almost feel sorry for Kieran. When it was her turn, she sincerely hoped her nearest and dearest found a more jolly way to send her off.

  A young guy with a thick black beard gave a speech. Ellen tried her best to focus on what he said but it wasn’t easy. He spoke about Kieran in a rambling, roundabout way, bringing everything back to the environment and the damage mankind was wreaking on their world.

  There were about twenty people in total, including Ellen, Abby, Nick Gleeson and Emer Dawson, who arrived late and stood at the back as if she didn’t want to draw attention to herself.

  Some journalists had also turned up, doing their best to maintain a discreet distance, although Ellen thought their very presence was an intrusion. She recognised one of them. A local hack called Martine Reynolds. Ellen hated Martine Reynolds and was pretty sure the feeling was mutual.

  ‘See that Reynolds woman?’ she whispered to Abby. ‘I’ve a good mind to go over there and tell her to get lost. Those people have no right to be here.’

  ‘They come with the territory,’ Abby said. ‘Unfortunately. There’s no sign of Charlotte. I wonder why she’s not here. Maybe Freya didn’t want her. Although, if you ask me, that’s a crap excuse. I mean, Emer’s here, right? And Freya didn’t want her to come either. You’d think the least Charlotte could have done is to show her face.’

  ‘Maybe Freya didn’t tell her about it,’ Ellen said.

  ‘Nick’s here so she must know.’ Abby said something else but Ellen zoned out. Abby had barely stopped for breath all morning. Her mood was unbearably upbeat and Ellen was exhausted by it. She hadn’t dared ask about Sam, dreading the increase in chatter and smiles if she did. Besides, there was no need to ask. Abby’s mood was proof enough that the night had gone well.

  Abby was still talking when Freya walked to the front. Ellen nudged Abby in the ribs, hard, and put a finger on her lips.

  ‘Shhh.’

  ‘Sorry,’ Abby said. ‘Oh God, she’s going to do a reading, isn’t she? I wonder what she’ll do. Hardly something from the Bible. They’re all a bit too new agey for that.’

  ‘Abby!’

  ‘Oh, right. Sorry.’

  At the front of the crowd, with the river behind her and the rays from the pink sun sneaking through the clouds, Freya cleared her throat and began speaking.

  ‘Thanks,’ she said. ‘It means a lot to see you all here today. Some people I don’t even know.’ She nodded at the group of students huddled together. ‘Um, thanks to Mac as well.’ Another nod, this time to the bloke with the black beard. ‘We decided to have the service here by the river because this was one of his favourite places. I guess most of you know that, right? Kieran really cared, you know? About everything. He was passionate, in life and in his love of politics. I have no doubt he would have gone on to do great things if …’ She broke off in a sob and Ellen had to look away.

  ‘Sorry,’ Freya said after a moment. ‘It’s not easy, you know? I wanted to read something. A poem.’ She looked across the crowd to her father, who smiled at her.

  ‘Than
ks to my dad who found this for me. It’s by a man called James Mary Plunkett. Sorry. Joseph. Joseph Mary Plunkett. Um, I chose this because Plunkett was a warrior, just like Kieran. Both men fought for what they believed in. For Plunkett, the fight was for Irish freedom.’

  Freya paused, looked across the people gathered in front of her, making eye contact with several of them, Ellen included.

  ‘For Kieran, the fight was bigger than that. His fight, friends, is our fight. And even though he’s not with us any longer, the fight must go on.’

  She stopped again and a few people clapped. One bloke, short hair and an acne-scarred face, gave a whoop.

  ‘The fight is for the world we live in,’ Freya said. ‘We can’t give up, friends. This land, this beautiful, wonderful land we live in, is in danger of being destroyed. Kieran knew that, and he dedicated his life to saving it. Today, I make him a promise. That I will continue his good work, I will continue the fight. Together, we will save this world of ours!’

  More applause and a few more whoops from acne face and then Freya was off, reading a poem Ellen had never heard before, and didn’t care if she never heard again. It was all about seeing someone everywhere after they had died. Ellen didn’t need a poem to remind her what that felt like.

  Ellen was interested in the different side of Freya she’d seen this morning. Freya’s little speech had impressed her. Once she’d got over her initial nerves, Freya was a passionate, convincing speaker. For the first time, Ellen thought she understood why Kieran might have been attracted to her. He may have been a shit, but he was a shit who cared about the impression he made. In certain circles, a partner like Freya could be an asset.

  When the poem finished, Freya invited everyone to light one of the candles they had been given at the beginning. The lighted candles were then placed in a row along the edge of the river, where the wind kept blowing them out.