The Complete Kate Benedict Cozy British Mysteries

by Carrie Bedford

  “I’m trying to pack it in,” said Wilson. He tapped his arm. “Got the patch but it doesn’t really help. Now I just eat more. French fries, donuts. Damned if you do, damned if you don’t, it seems to me. Lung cancer or heart attack, I’m not sure what difference it makes, really. One of them’s going to get me.”

  Pulled from my thoughts by Wilson’s comments on dying, I looked at him intently. There was no aura over his head.

  “You’ll be fine,” I said, without thinking.

  “Glad to hear it,” he said with a grin.

  Clarke finished his call and talked to Wilson. “We need to contact the parents to let them know about their daughter,” he said. “Can you make the necessary calls to locate them, please?”

  “Will you do it, sir, be the one to tell them?”

  Clarke nodded wearily. “Yes, just get me their contact information.”

  “I’ve got that,” I said to Wilson, and his face lit up briefly. One less task to do. I gave him the number I had dialed earlier, feeling a stab of grief for poor Mr. Williams and his wife.

  Wilson wandered back into the apartment, radio in hand, and Clarke was on his phone again.

  “So, the police seem to be taking this pretty seriously,” Nick said, pushing himself away from the banisters and coming to lean against the wall next to me. “It looked to me as though she had a couple of glasses of wine too many and tripped into the coffee table. But the way they’re talking in there, they seem to think there’s been foul play.”

  I didn’t respond. My head hurt, I still felt sick, and indescribably depressed. Voices and the sound of footsteps drew Nick back to the banisters to look over into the stairwell. A few seconds later, three men appeared at the top of the stairs, all in plain clothes and carrying an assortment of boxes and bags.

  After finishing his call, Clarke came back to where Nick and I stood.

  “Come into the station on Buckingham Palace Road tomorrow to do your fingerprints, and to sign statements please. Meanwhile, if you think of anything that might help us trace the boyfriend, please call me on this number.”

  He gave each of us a card with his name and a cell phone number on it.

  “What about Caspian?” asked Nick. “Can I take him downstairs? He can’t stay here alone.”

  Clarke nodded. “Of course. Wilson will accompany you. Don’t touch anything.”

  “I’ll help you get him,” I said, following him back into the apartment. I didn’t really want to go back inside, but I wasn’t sure what else to do.

  Wilson was in the hallway and Nick told him about the cat. He came with us to the bedroom, and waited while we coaxed Caspian out from under the bed. Nick picked him up, and gave me a kiss on the cheek. “Stay in touch,” he said before leaving.

  For a few seconds, I stood by the bed, unsure what to do next. “Do you need a ride home, miss?” asked Wilson. “I’m going back to the Yard but I’m happy to make a detour.”

  “Thanks, but it’s okay. I need some fresh air,” I said. Staying in motion seemed important, anything to put off the moment when I’d be alone with my thoughts. Rebecca was dead. She’d had an aura, as had Sophie and Francesca. And now Nick was in danger.

  It was late by the time I reached my apartment. Kicking off my boots, I slipped out of my jacket, got into bed with my clothes on, and pulled the duvet up to my chin. I couldn’t stop shaking. My head ached, so I got back up to find my pain medications and swallowed two with a handful of water from the bathroom tap. The vision of Rebecca’s inert body kept pushing in on my closed eyes. I burrowed deeper under the covers, leaving the bedside light on like a scared child. I hadn’t saved Rebecca even though I knew she was in danger. The guilt felt like bricks piled up on my chest. I should have done more. I should have never let her out of my sight.

  12

  Thin grey light seeped around the edges of the curtains, filling the room with an aqueous gloom. The only color came from the red numbers on the digital clock, showing that it was almost nine. I stretched my neck from one side to the other, trying to work out the kinks.

  The kitchen beckoned with the promise of hot tea and Marmite on toast. I was hungry, which reminded me that I hadn’t eaten the evening before. My cell phone was on the counter next to the kettle. I had missed four calls, three from Josh, and one from a clerk at the police station reminding me to come in to sign my statement. Damn. It had been an effort to walk a few yards from the bedroom; I couldn’t imagine dragging myself halfway across London, especially in this weather. The rain was pounding against the windows and thick granite-colored clouds formed a low-slung ceiling over the city.

  I took my tea and the phone back to bed, listening to the messages from Josh again. He sounded increasingly worried that I wasn’t picking up and asked me to call him back as soon as possible. I started to pull up his number to phone him, but then realized he didn’t know about Rebecca’s death. I couldn’t talk about it yet, knew the words wouldn’t come out. So I settled for sending him a text to tell him I was all right and that I’d call him later.

  I wasn’t sure whether I was sick or suffering from the shock of finding Rebecca. My muscles hurt, my head ached, and I felt exhausted even though I’d slept late. But I had to get up and moving, so I dragged myself off the bed and into the bathroom. I ran the shower as hot as I could bear it and, as the water flowed over my back and shoulders, I examined my knees, which had healed well apart from little collections of scars that had faded to light pink.

  I didn’t have time to dry my hair so I tied it up in a ponytail, found some clean wool pants, and threw on the sweater I’d been wearing to bed. Not very hygienic, but I didn’t have the energy to look for clean clothes. A glance in the mirror proved to be a bad idea. Zombie was the first word that came to mind but I didn’t care. I wanted to get the police station trip over and done with and get to work before Alan noticed I was missing, again.

  My umbrella did little to shield me from the deluge of rain that had soaked through my coat and boots by the time I reached the police station. It was my first time inside such a bastion of law enforcement and it was cleaner and quieter than I’d imagined it would be. In the entry area, a teenager in a hoodie sat on a plastic chair, his eyes glazed and distant, while a thuggish-looking man in his forties shot poisonous looks at everyone who walked by.

  A high counter carrying a “Reception” sign was staffed by a tired-looking woman who picked away at her keyboard. She looked me up on the computer and then directed me to a room down the hall. I walked slowly, noticing the beige lino floor, a popcorn ceiling, and bright neon lights that flickered and buzzed. A faint smell of disinfectant and burned coffee filled the air.

  A clerk handed me the statement I had made to Officer Wilson the day before. I skimmed it and signed, then rolled my thumb and fingers over an ink pad and on to a piece of card. It was all done in minutes and I hurried back to the front entrance.

  Rubbing at the ink stains on my fingers, I pushed the outer door open with my shoulder and heard a yelp of pain. Mortified, I realized the door had hit someone coming in. That someone was Inspector Clarke.

  “Miss Benedict.” He greeted me with that smile that lit up his green eyes. “You’ve done your fingerprints, I see. Thank you.”

  I regretted not doing my hair or not putting on any make-up, and then felt guilty for worrying about such trivialities when Rebecca was dead.

  “Can I have a few minutes?” he asked me. “There’s a decent cafe around the corner if you have time.”

  Nodding, I followed him outside, turning my coat collar up against the driving rain, worried about being even later to work, but glad of the opportunity to find out more about what had happened to Rebecca.

  We settled at a table in a quiet corner with styrofoam cups of coffee, straight black for him and a latte for me. It was warm and humid inside and the windows were opaque with condensation. Taking off his wool coat, Clarke draped it over the back of his chair. I kept mine on, as much because I still felt
shivery and chilled as to hide the fact that I was wearing the same sweater I’d been wearing when I saw Clarke at Rebecca’s flat the night before.

  “Have you found out anything more about how Rebecca died?” I asked.

  “I’m supposed to be the one asking the questions,” he said with a faint grin. “But not yet. I’m expecting the autopsy report later today.”

  “Did you find out when she died?”

  He took a sip of coffee and pulled his notebook from his jacket pocket. I waited, hoping he would tell me more. Instead, he leaned back in his chair and took another sip of coffee.

  “Miss Benedict, I wonder if you could tell me more about your relationship with Miss Williams? How did you know her?”

  Surprised by the question, I told him about being friends during college and then not seeing each other until she walked into the conference room at Bradley Cohen.

  “And would you count yourself as a good friend?”

  “Yes,” I said and then thought about it. “Well, not really. We’d only just started seeing each other again and hadn’t got much beyond the small talk about jobs, boyfriends, that kind of thing. It had been a few years since I last saw her.”

  Nodding, he wrote something in his notebook. “And why did you think the photo was of the boyfriend? Did she tell you it was?”

  I felt my cheeks burn with embarrassment. “No, she didn’t. I just assumed. I didn’t know she’d had a brother, or that he was dead. She told me it was just her and her parents. They live in Bournemouth.”

  Something stuck in my throat. “Did you tell them? About Rebecca?”

  Clarke inclined his head in what could have been a nod, or a bow of prayer. I thought of my short conversation with Mr. Williams and tears blurred my vision. He had seemed kind and gentle. How could he and his wife handle the death of their daughter, just a couple of years after losing their son?

  “That’s a crappy job,” I said, wondering how Clarke could do it. He was so young, too young surely to be dealing with death and violence every day.

  He gave a thin smile and nodded. “The worst part. Always.”

  “Did they know more about Rebecca’s boyfriend? His name or where he lives?”

  “No.” He didn’t seem willing to say more. After a long pause, he asked. “Are you doing all right? You’re still looking very pale.”

  I took a slug of coffee and put the cup down on the table.

  “Yes, I’m fine. You’re treating this as an accident, right?”

  He nodded but didn’t speak. “So why are you involved?” I asked. “I mean, you’re a detective, but it seems that there’s nothing to detect.”

  Clarke smiled. “It’s just routine. When I get the coroner’s report, I’ll close the case, in all likelihood.”

  He leaned forward slightly, elbows on the table. “Why? Do you have a different view?”

  I decided to say what had been on my mind ever since the moment of walking into Rebecca’s apartment.

  “Well, I suppose I do.” My voice shook and I took a gulp of coffee. “It just seems unlikely that she fell. She was a dancer in college and had amazing balance. You could still see it in the way she walked. She had great poise.”

  He raised an eyebrow. “Accidents happen,” he said. “You’d be amazed at the range of accidental deaths I’ve seen. The most unlikely people dying in the most incredible circumstances.”

  ’I suppose so,” I said. I felt disheartened but decided to keep asking questions. “What time did she die? She was supposed to be meeting her boyfriend, don’t forget. Maybe he was there when it happened?”

  “Initial estimate of time of death is around six on Sunday evening,” he said.

  That was more than forty-eight hours before Nick and I found her. I shivered.

  “Tell me more about this boyfriend,” he said. “You never met him?”

  “No. All she told me was that his name is Edward and that he travels a lot. That’s it. Maybe he’ll contact the police when he realizes Rebecca’s not answering his calls or texts? I mean, he must get worried at some point and then he’ll reach out to someone. Perhaps he’ll ask Nick?”

  Clarke played with the lid on his cup, bending back the piece of plastic that covered the opening until it broke off in his hand. He looked at it before answering.

  “This boyfriend seems to be a bit of a mystery. You said that his shaving cream and aftershave were removed from the bathroom cabinet? If he moved out, he may not expect to hear from her, or be in touch with her in any way.”

  “Oh, right. I hadn’t thought of that.”

  I paused, unsure whether to share another idea I’d had. “I was wondering about Rebecca’s apartment,” I said finally. “It’s in a very expensive part of London. I know she had a good job, but I was thinking it might be out of her pay range. I mean, we’re only three years or so out of college. I’m certainly not making that kind of money. So maybe the boyfriend was paying for it and you could perhaps trace him through a rent check or something.” I tailed off, feeling embarrassed that I was making suggestions to a professional.

  Clarke nodded, with a hint of smile. “Good thinking, Miss Benedict. I’d thought the same thing. I’ll follow up on that.”

  In the long silence that followed, Clarke shifted in his chair and stuck his legs out in front of him, leaning back as though he was in a comfortable armchair at home.

  “Yesterday you said something about looking out for Rebecca,” he said. “Can you tell me more? Why did you feel you needed to look out for her?”

  I really have to learn to keep my mouth closed, I thought. There was no way I was going to try explain the aura to Inspector Clarke.

  “It was that she seemed vulnerable, you know? The boyfriend seemed to have her on a short string. She set her schedule around when he was home.”

  Clarke’s expression indicated that he had expected more but he nodded.

  “Ok.”

  The ensuing silence was broken only by the pattering of rain on the windows. I drank more of my coffee, starting to feel a slight buzz that was so much better than the dog-tired fatigue I’d started the day with. But the increased energy also took the edge off the numbness I’d been feeling since finding Rebecca’s body. I took another gulp of coffee to hide my sudden emotion. I’d never see her again. We wouldn’t go to the play we’d planned to see. We wouldn’t drive around in my Dad’s Fiat 500 and flirt with Italian waiters. I wouldn’t take her to my favorite museum in Florence or up the Campanile. None of that would happen now.

  Clarke handed me a clean and pressed white handkerchief even before I realized I needed it. I blotted the tears from under my eyes.

  “You must be a good listener,” he said, in an apparent non sequitur. I raised an eyebrow, not sure what he meant.

  “I know you haven’t seen much of Rebecca, but you’ve taken the time to consider what she’s told you about this rather mysterious boyfriend, to analyze what the missing aftershave might mean. Not many people do that. Most of what we say goes in one ear and out the other. In my job, I’m often asking questions, talking to witnesses, trying to construct a backstory for a victim or a perpetrator and you’d be amazed at how hard it is. We don’t communicate with each other very well at all.”

  I felt my cheeks redden. In my real life, as I thought of it now, the life I’d led before, I’d be as inattentive and unheeding as the people he was describing. It was only because of the aura that I’d been paying attention, listening to the nuances of what Rebecca told me, trying to uncover a clue, a thread that would have helped me to save her.

  Clarke straightened up in his chair and glanced at his watch. “I should be going. Are you all right? Do you have far to get home?”

  “I’ll be fine. I’m going straight to work. Just a few stops on the Tube. It’s no big deal.”

  “Do you live alone?”

  “What?”

  He laughed. “I’m sorry, That came out wrong. I just want to know if you have anyone who will be with you.
Look after you for a few days. Finding a body is enough to throw most people into a tailspin. Do you have somewhere you could go? Family?”

  “My brother,” I said. “But he’s in Italy, for a funeral.”

  “I’m sorry to hear that. Someone you knew?”

  “Yes, a friend of my father’s. She died last week of a stroke.”

  “My condolences,” he said. “That and now Miss Williams. That must be hard on you.”

  And Sophie too, I nearly said out loud.

  “Not great,” I agreed. I was mired in misery, but he didn’t need to hear that.

  Two young women walked past our table, both giving Clarke a sidelong glance of appreciation. He didn’t look like a detective. In his well-tailored suit and black wingtips, he could have been one of the City finance guys; he had that same air of self-confidence.

  He pushed his chair back, slipped on his coat and followed me out, hurrying forward to hold the door open for me. We stood under the awning for a few seconds.

  “Thanks for taking the time to talk with me,” he said.

  We said goodbye to each other. I watched him walk away under the relentless rain. Just as I turned around to head towards the Tube station, I caught sight of Nick in a Burberry coat and scarf, carrying a black umbrella and walking in the direction of the police station.

  “Nick!” I called, and he lowered the umbrella.

  “Hi, Kate. Just going to the station to do my fingerprints. Have you done yours?”

  I nodded but didn’t speak. Even in the torrential rain, I could see the aura moving around his head and shoulders.

  13

  When I walked into the office, Annie waved me over to the reception desk. “Darth Vader’s been demanding to know where you,” she whispered, even though there was no one else around. She always called Alan Darth Vader.

  “You have five messages, and there’s a meeting going on in Josh’s office.” She handed me the message slips.

  “Good luck with DV.”