by Lauren White
What I don't understand is why he stayed with you, when he had her.
Thanks! The joke is, if he hadn't had me to bully, he might not have had such a good relationship with Maxine. And, a cynical part of me thinks that the only reason we’re getting on better now is that he has her at home to help him ventilate his rage. We met when we were so young, Kate, the dynamic between us was forged in immaturity, and that is pretty much where it stayed.
Why does everything have to be so complicated with you?
Human relations are complicated.
No, they’re not.
How can you of all people say that? Our Dad was murdered when we were ten years old, Kate. Shot in the head while he was on duty. Don’t you think that complicated our ability to relate with other humans just a tad? My counsellor says...
When did you start counselling?
A few months ago, anyway as I was saying my counsellor reckons it was Dad's death which made me cling on to Phil.
I’m fed up with your counsellor, already.
Why do you have to do that? Why do you have to be so flippant about anything that is important to me?
Okay, okay, so your counsellor says you’re a cling on. Well, I'm a Vulcan.
You’re emotionally autistic!
Isn’t that what I just said? By the way, while we’re sharing confidences, are you and Nigs getting serious about each other yet?
She blushes. You could say that.
How would you feel about giving a message to him for me?
A message... from you? Oh, no, Kate, I'd rather not. He doesn't believe in all this stuff?
In all what stuff?
In...you know...ghosts.
How many times? I’m not a ghost, I’m an earth bound spirit.
Take it from me, Kate, the living don’t appreciate the distinction.
Make him.
No, I don't want to.
Not even with another woman's life at stake? He can’t be that hard to convince. He used to think he could smell my perfume.
That was in the first weeks, after you died. He has rationalised it now.
Fine, forget it. I shall have to find some other way to communicate with him.
You're not going to do anything to frighten him off me, are you? Or give him a heart attack?
I’ll try not to but I can’t promise.
She drains her glass. What is it you want me to say to him?
I want you to give him an envelope.
With what inside?
A tip off about his murder investigation, that’s all.
After we've taken the children's presents to their rooms and Carrie has gone to bed, I sit up watching a twenty four hour news channel. I have nothing better to do. Most of the stories are the typical Christmas fare: lots of international items bought in from news agencies because the regular channel reporters and production staff want to have a Christmas too. The few national news stories they've carried so far have been tinsel. Sentimental pap filmed in advance and designed to produce some seasonal cheer in the collective unconscious. I'm so bored and fed up I'm beginning to wonder what I'm doing here at all. I can't eat, I can't drink, and I have no use for presents. To date my afterlife hasn't yielded any of the answers I was led to believe it should. I'm beginning to suspect post-death experience is like collection of Russian dolls. All will finally be revealed in the after-afterlife, or failing that, the after-after-afterlife, or even, the after-after- after- afterlife.
I catch a glimpse of a photograph I recognise on the television screen. It’s Jackie. They've used the skull they found in Oxley Woods to build up a computer image of what her face must have looked like when she was alive. If her presence in the spirit world is anything to go by, it is an amazingly accurate likeness. The reporter explains that the police are hoping someone will be able to put a name to her face. I stare back at Jackie's dead eyes, feeling useless. Maybe I should make an addendum about her identity in the letter, I'm already planning to write to Nigs.
The presenter moves on to the next story. Karl Grüner who was convicted last February of the murder of his girlfriend Gertrud Weiss was released from prison, earlier today, pending a judicial review of his case, in the light of new evidence linking his girlfriend's murder to the deaths of three other women.
They have finally set him free then. I was beginning to think it would never happen. I wonder whether Gerte knows. Maybe now she’ll stop giving me a hard time for believing he killed her in the first place.
Take a look at this envelope. It was pushed through the door today. See? It's addressed to D.I Kate Madding.
Nigs stares at Carrie, blankly. But, there is no post on Boxing Day.
Can’t you just tell he’s a detective, I whisper in her ear.
Scowling in my direction, she says to him: I thought you should open it in case it’s from one of her informants.
This wasn’t in the script we agreed beforehand. I dig her in the ribs. Why would an informant be sending a letter to me here, you dunce!
Fortunately Nigs isn’t as quick on the uptake as me. He accepts the envelope she is proffering, and slits it open, emptying the contents onto the kitchen table. There are three press clippings and a note.
Do you have some gloves? The sort you use to dye your hair would be best.
I only put henna in my hair, she tells him, defensively.
Carrie, go and get him the gloves.
She goes to the bathroom, muttering under her breath. I was just telling him that I don't put dye in my hair. I use henna.
Maybe he noticed the lowlights you had done for your first date, I quibble, following her.
I didn't do them myself though, did I?
Fine! Please, let’s not argue anymore about this. Just let’s fetch the ruddy gloves.
Returning to the kitchen, she leans over Nigs shoulder and asks: What do the cuttings say?
He puts on the gloves, and scans the story, with the headline: BRIDE GOES MISSING ON HER WEDDING DAY.
I'm not sure. This one is about a missing bride. But, I don't understand...
He turns to the next cutting: CAR BREAKDOWN PATROLMAN WAS THE LAST TO SEE TRAGIC BRIDE. He is looking even more confused by the time he has finished.
Tell him to read the damn note, I instruct Carrie.
What does the note say, Nigs?
He uses a pen to slide it closer and reads it aloud.
Dear Kate, I thought you should know, Jackie Brand, the missing bride, is the unidentified woman whose body was found in Oxley Woods. Her car was abandoned by Humber Bridge in what was believed to be a suicide but in fact, she was murdered by Gordon Richards, the motoring association patrol man, who was sent to help her, when her car broke down. His first victim, Gail Martos is still alive and can identify him.
Do you think it could be true, Nigs?
He shrugs and rereads the first two cuttings. Then, he starts on the third: LEICESTER WOMAN ATTACKED WAITING FOR ROADSIDE ASSISTENCE. This produces a low, flat whistle.
He looks up at Carrie. Did you see who delivered this?
She notices something on the floor which must be picked up, immediately. I am willing to bet inside her head she is cursing me. My sister likes to think she has scruples. Lying to him by omission is one thing but I know she won’t want to make it any worse by telling the new man in her life a direct lie. She slips into the seat across the table from him, avoiding his eyes all the while, and smiles, enigmatically. What do you think it means?
He must be in love. A half-wit could tell she is hiding something.
I don't know, but he seems to know her, doesn’t he? He calls her Kate.
My lodgers, Jaswinder and Jitendra, and their son, little Surinder, have moved back to Richmond. They were supposed to stay another three months, but Jas told Carrie, their house had been finished ahead of schedule, and she wanted to live there, while she decided how to decorate it. I’m trying not to take their departure, personally. It is true I’ve neglected them of late. I’ve barely
been able to make dinner with them, for weeks. But, I’ve still called in to say hello whenever I could. Carrie claims it was this which scared them off: They kept smelling that perfume of yours! I take no notice. She is just sore because she has found out it was Nigs who gave it to me, for my last birthday. Whatever their reason for leaving was, the flat feels like a wasteland without them. I hate being alone. In desperation, I'm thinking of moving into the spare room in Bennett and Chelsee's place, next door.
It is New Year's Eve and I’ve been deserted by my sister who is spending the night at home with Nigs, while the boys have a sleepover with their father. My clients are all busy too. Bim is still in the Alps, with Reece. Kerry and Jackie are watching the Weasel, in Spain. Cheryl is safely ensconced with her parents, in Wales, and Gerte is with Karl.
The clock has already chimed three in the morning when I hear a key turn in the lock. For a moment I think my lodgers may have returned and I approach the door with excitement. But, as it opens I see the figure of a tall man. I recognise his silhouette, immediately. What is he doing here? Why isn't he with Carrie? I knew she’d given him a key so he could stop by and fix a leaky radiator but this seems an odd time for him to be doing it. Besides, he has no tools with him.
He goes straight to my study. Carrie has locked all my personal possessions in a large cupboard there because she still can't face sorting through them. He has no key to this but by the light of a torch, he holds in his mouth, he picks the lock. This is when it dawns on me: he is conducting an illegal search of my flat. How dare he?
He unpacks the cardboard boxes and, painstakingly, goes through the contents. His movements are clumsy as though he has been drinking. He drops a file of papers, and they scatter across the floor, but instead of trying to pick them up, he sits down in the midst of them. He makes a strange noise, deep in his chest, and the next moment his whole body is convulsing. I think he is having a heart attack at first because, in the false gloaming of the torchlight, I can’t see him, clearly. It is only when I hear a wet snuffling sound escape from his mouth, I realise he is actually sobbing.
Look what you've done to me, he gasps, before he is overwhelmed by tears again. Who was he? He called you Kate! Was he a friend?
There are so many emotions avalanching through me, it is hard to separate them. A wild searing love for him predominates but there is a glimmer of fear for my sister too. She doesn't need another secret love triangle in her life and certainly not one with her dead twin. But, yes, if I’m honest, there’s also guilty stab of satisfaction that it is me who still has his heart and not her.
Marry me, I say only half ironically.
In France, the law permits a living person to marry a dead one, if the deceased expressed a wish to be wed before his or her untimely death. That is what I read somewhere, anyway. It seemed a pretty silly law, at the time, but now I begin to see the wisdom of it.
I put my arm around his shoulders and whisper to him. Go home Nigs. I love you, I really do, and I regret so much not telling you that before it was too late for me to do anything about it. I regret not acknowledging it to myself. But, you have to let me go. It’s not fair on you and it’s not fair on Carrie either. She has been through enough.
Leicester is cold, cold, cold. There is still snow glistening on the pavements, a week after it fell. Gail Martos is at home recovering from a nasty bout of flu. She is feeling irritable because Nigs and Fester have arrived on her doorstep unannounced, forcing her to get up from her sick bed.
It's about time, she complains, after she has checked their warrant cards and phoned Bixby to confirm they are who they say they are. I've been waiting for someone to contact me, ever since I posted back the questionnaire, you sent, in the summer.
Nigs raises his eyebrows, questioningly, at his partner.
Neighbourhood watch, probably, Fester whispers to him.
She ushers them into the living room and motions them towards the two armchairs, while she takes the sofa, opposite. She is wearing a snoopy dressing gown and furry slippers. Surrounded by the cuddly toys huddled on the arms of the chairs where they are sitting, I sense my former colleagues may be re-evaluating her as a credible witness. Then, she turns the tables on them and produces the photograph of Gordon Richards that we sent her through the mail.
Nigs examines it and the accompanying letter and passes them to Fester. They exchange a glance.
And, you're sure the man pictured here is your attacker, Ms Martos?
I'm certain. Is he in custody yet? Do you want me to testify against him?
Possibly, in due course, he says hesitantly. Do you know his name?
No. She examines Fester’s and Nigs’ faces. But, you do, don’t you?
Nigs smiles at her, reassuringly. Can we take the photograph with us?
Yes, of course. Oh dear, was I supposed to return everything? I didn't realise. I just thought you wanted the questionnaire back.
I don’t suppose you remember the address where you were asked to send it?
It would have been the same as the one on the letter, wouldn't it?
Nigs clears his throat. There isn't actually one on the letter.
But, you did get my reply, didn't you?
Nigs turns to Fester, silently appealing for help.
We are sure someone did, Ms Martos, Fester answers. But, my colleague and I are from a different squad.
Oh yes, of course, you are, Gail agrees, uncomprehendingly.
After they have made their excuses and left, the detectives sit outside the house in their car.
Fester scratches his bald head. So what the hell was that about? Who sent her that photograph?
The same person who sent Kate the envelope. It has to be a private detective, don't you think? Maybe one of the victims' parents hired one.
He is way ahead of us, if that’s true.
Did Kate ever mention to you, she was friendly with a private detective?
No, and they can’t have been that friendly, if he doesn’t know she’s dead
Nigs shrugs. Whoever he is, he’s obviously conducting his own investigation – that’s what makes me suspect he’s a private eye.
Or he could be just toying with us. It might be the killer, mightn't it?
But, the info he sent Kate about Jackie Brand was correct.
So? Who better than the killer to know that, mate?
Nigs looks at the photograph. It's a bit of a mystery, that’s for sure, but one thing seems clear, Gail Martos was attacked by a man offering roadside assistance, and the last person to see Jackie Brand alive was a man paid to offer roadside assistance. The sixty four thousand dollar questions are whether they are one and the same man, and if they are, whether our killer could really be Gordon Richards.
The corridors of Leicester police station smell of air-freshener, the sickly sweet fragrance reminding Nigs and Fester of rotting flesh.
I think it is him, Nigs whispers to Fester, although there is nobody there to overhear him.
Fester gives him a sceptical look. Because the artist's impression, based on the description that Gail Martos gave, five years ago, vaguely matches him? That'll be an interesting case for the CPS to prepare.
She positively identified the man.
From that photograph? Least said about that the better. We've no idea who sent it to her. A good lawyer is bound to infer we did it ourselves to lead her in the direction we wanted her to go in. We're going to need more than her being able to identify him to get this guy into court.
She put in her statement that her attacker drove a blue Renault van and he used to own one.
Him and thousands of others, mate. It proves nothing.
Nigs clears his throat. How should we play this, then?
Real friendly, Fester counsels. We have to be very careful. Nobody except Bixby knows what we're about and we don't want to blow it. Mr Richards is here of his own volition to go through the statement he made when Jackie Brand went missing. That is all. We have no reason to suspec
t him of anything. It is just a formality.
Do we both go in?
No, that might make him nervous: one in, one watching.
You go in then; you've got a better poker face than me.
You reckon? Kate was the one who was the best at the wolf in sheep's clothing stuff.
She should be here, shouldn’t she? He punches Fester playfully in the ribs. It’s all down to you now. Go get him, big guy.
Good morning, Mr Richards, Fester says, as he enters the interview room. Thanks for coming in to see us, today. I'm sorry to have kept you waiting. Would you like a cup of coffee, or anything?
The Weasel has risen from his chair to greet him. The two men shake hands.
No, don’t bother. I'm fine, thanks.
They sit down opposite each other and Fester places a buff folder on the table in front of him. Looking up into Gordon Richard’s eyes, he smiles. I just want to go through this statement with you and then we're done.
I'm happy to help, Detective, but it was a few years ago now. He leans forward. I'm not sure I can add to whatever I told you back then.
Did you know Jackie Brand's body has been found?
Richards holds Fester's gaze, steadily. Yes, I read about it in a newspaper. Her poor parents, it must be terrible for them.
Do you have kiddies, Mr Richards?
No, no, I'm not married. But, I can imagine. Or maybe I can't. It must be the worst.
Yes, well, if you read about it in the papers, you'll know she was murdered. So anything you can give us will be a help.
I think you already have everything there. He nods at the statement.
Let's just go through it then. Okay?
Sure.
Your control room received a call from Jackie Brand at 12.30 pm that Saturday. She'd broken down on the M1, near the Leicester turn off. You were the nearest patrol man.
Fester looks up to confirm this with him.
Yes, that sounds right. Although, I wouldn't have known what time it was now, without you telling me.