The Postscript Murders

by Elly Griffiths

  ‘Sorry,’ says Benedict. ‘I was just going to say that the covers don’t really do the books justice. They’re very subtle. Almost psychological thrillers.’

  ‘This is a waste of time,’ says Natalka. ‘We should be looking through her papers. Maybe there’s another threatening note.’

  Benedict looks hurt. ‘You said to look through the books.’

  ‘Well, now I’m saying to look through her papers.’

  Natalka opens Peggy’s desk. There are some letters there. Natalka wishes she had the time to read them. Should she take them away? But this seems wrong. In one of the drawers, though, she finds a large silver button and pockets it. For luck.

  ‘There’s nothing in any of these,’ says Benedict, who is opening and shutting all the Challoners.

  ‘We must . . .’ begins Natalka and then she stops.

  ‘What is it?’ says Benedict.

  ‘Can you hear something? Footsteps.’

  But the footsteps have stopped now. There’s silence. This, for some reason, is the scariest thing of all.

  ‘I can’t hear anything,’ says Benedict.

  ‘Shhh.’

  A key turns in the lock. Instinctively, they move together into the centre of the room.

  The door opens. And in walks a masked figure pointing a gun at them.

  7

  Benedict

  Shiny Shoes

  AT FIRST BENEDICT can’t quite take in the gun or the mask. He focuses on all the wrong things. The leather jacket, the dark jeans, the shiny shoes. Then he realises that his life is in danger. He wants to throw himself in front of Natalka but finds himself unable to move. Is this how it ends? Should he be trying to say a final, perfect act of contrition? ‘Oh my God, I’m very sorry that I have sinned against you . . .’

  Next to him, Natalka makes a sound that’s almost a growl. He’s not touching her but he can feel that she’s tensed for action. It’s as if she has a force field around her. Benedict reaches out, whether to hold her or restrain her he doesn’t know, but, as he does so, the man grabs something from the floor and backs out, leaving the door open.

  ‘Let’s go after him,’ says Natalka.

  ‘Are you mad?’ says Benedict. ‘We need to call the police.’ He already has his phone out.

  ‘I’ll call DS Kaur,’ says Natalka. ‘It’ll be quicker.’ While Natalka talks (‘with a gun . . . in Peggy’s flat . . . just now . . .’) Benedict goes to the window. He hopes to see the man escaping but Peggy’s sitting room overlooks the beach so all he can see is the blameless blue sea. A boat with red sails is moving smoothly across the horizon. Red sails in the sunset. It looks like it belongs in another world.

  ‘She’s coming,’ says Natalka. ‘She says not to touch anything. What did he take?’

  ‘Who?’ says Benedict, still looking at the boat.

  ‘Benny! The gunman! What did he pick up from the floor?’

  Benedict struggles to pull himself together. Usually, he likes it when Natalka calls him Benny but now she just sounds exasperated and he doesn’t blame her. He thought that being in danger was meant to sharpen your reflexes but he feels as if he is underwater.

  ‘A book,’ he says, trying to come back to the surface. ‘One of the old ones. A Sheila Atkins, I think.’

  ‘Which one?’

  Benedict looks at the books spread out on the floor. There were two of the three Atkins books, with their faded but still garish covers. He can see Give Me the Daggers and The Prince of Darkness Is a Gentleman. There’s something else on the floor too. A bookmark that must have fallen out when the gunman picked up the book. It’s a picture of a saint—​a holy picture, Benedict’s grandmother would have called it. St Patrick, all in green.

  ‘Which book?’ says Natalka, her voice rising.

  ‘I think it was Thank Heaven Fasting,’ says Benedict. ‘I don’t see it anywhere.’ He’s pleased to have made this small breakthrough. ‘It had a picture of a man and a woman embracing on the cover. It’s a quote from—’

  ‘We don’t need to know where it’s from,’ says Natalka.

  She’s probably right.

  ‘What was the book that Edwin had?’ says Natalka. ‘The one with the note inside?’

  ‘High Rise Murder,’ says Benedict. ‘It was an advance copy. Not published yet.’

  ‘“We are coming for you”,’ says Natalka. ‘That’s what it said. Do you think it came with the book?’

  Benedict opens his mouth to answer and closes it again. Sirens are approaching. Such a familiar yet ominous sound. It seems incredible that it’s actually heading their way. But, a few minutes later, they hear more footsteps on the stairs and DS Kaur appears, accompanied by a muscular man with a crewcut. She stops in the doorway.

  ‘Are you both OK?’

  ‘Of course,’ says Natalka.

  ‘This is DS Winston. He’s going to guard the room until SOCO come. Come out now. Leave the room without touching the walls or the door.’

  Scene of the crime, translates Benedict in his head. He’s seen it on TV programmes. He has to suppress a twinge of excitement. This is serious, he tells himself. But he can’t deny it’s the most interesting thing to have happened to him since Brother Giles forgot the doxology in Matins.

  Behind Harbinder, a door opens and Edwin’s head appears. ‘What’s going on?’ He sounds quavery and much older than usual.

  ‘Can we use your flat?’ says DS Kaur. ‘Neil, you wait here.’

  Neil Winston seems used to being ordered about. He nods and takes up his position by the door. DS Kaur ushers Natalka and Benedict into Edwin’s flat. Benedict has known Edwin for two years but their relationship, though warm, consists mainly of coffee and remarks about the weather. When Peggy joined them their conversation was more wide-ranging, often straying to the picnic table and, once, to a fish and chip lunch at The Cod Father. But Benedict has never been inside Edwin’s home and now, despite the circumstances, he looks around with interest. It’s decorated in quiet good taste: cream sofas, wooden floors, oriental rugs, white-painted bookcases. There are racks of CDs too and enough vinyl to keep a collector happy for years. No photos, though, or anything personal. It’s darker than Peggy’s flat, partly because the curtains are half drawn. Of course, there’s no sea view on this side of the building.

  Natalka and Benedict sit side by side on one of the sofas, DS Kaur takes the armchair. Edwin bustles away to make tea, ‘for the shock’, and Benedict surprises himself with a fleeting, but acute, longing for brandy.

  ‘So,’ says DS Kaur, ‘what happened?’

  Natalka describes it all: the footsteps, the masked man, the gun. DS Kaur watches her intently, occasionally making a note in a pleasingly pre-digital jotter. She has a businesslike and competent manner but Benedict suspects that the detective could be as scary as Natalka if she tried. He studies her profile: dark hair pulled back into a ponytail, beautifully straight nose, large brown eyes with long eyelashes, determined lips, no make-up that he can see.

  ‘Isn’t that right, Benny?’ Natalka gives him a nudge. Quite a hard one.

  ‘What? Yes.’

  ‘He’s in shock,’ says Natalka, giving him a look.

  ‘Can you describe the man at all?’ says DS Kaur.

  ‘He had a mask on,’ says Natalka.

  ‘Tall,’ says Benedict, ‘wearing a black leather jacket, the blouson sort, black jeans, possibly Levi’s, black shiny shoes.’

  Natalka stares at him and Harbinder repeats, ‘black shiny shoes.’

  ‘I noticed,’ says Benedict, almost apologetically.

  ‘I always notice shoes,’ says DS Kaur. She makes a note in her pad. ‘Did he say anything?’ she asks.

  ‘No,’ says Natalka. ‘He just pointed the gun at us, then he picked a book up off the floor and left.’

  ‘What was the book?’

  ‘We think it was Thank Heaven Fasting by a writer called Sheila Atkins,’ says Benedict.

  ‘Why would he take that book?’
>
  ‘We don’t know,’ says Natalka. ‘That’s why we were in Peggy’s flat,’ she adds, in a slightly accusatory tone, ‘looking for clues.’

  ‘And did you find any?’ asks DS Kaur. Benedict admires the way that she gives nothing away. His voice trembles in moments of stress or emotion but Kaur keeps the same light, impersonal tone throughout. She has a slight accent that his mother would describe as ‘estuary’.

  ‘Lots of books,’ says Natalka, ‘all dedicated to Peggy.’

  ‘Not all,’ says Benedict. ‘There were lots of classics too. Some out of print like the Atkinses. But there were lots of modern books that mentioned Peggy. All the Dex Challoner books and some by another writer, J. D. Monroe.’

  Edwin comes in with the tea and Benedict sips his gratefully, even though Edwin has added sugar. He admires the cups, white china with a watery green rim. He always has cups and saucers in the café, never mugs, even though it doubles the washing up.

  ‘I can’t believe it,’ says Edwin, who has obviously been listening. ‘A gunman in Preview Court.’

  ‘Seaview,’ says Natalka.

  ‘That’s what I said.’

  ‘It’s a CID matter,’ says DS Kaur, ‘because of the gun. We’ll see if there are any forensics in the flat. Was the man wearing gloves?’

  ‘Yes,’ says Benedict. ‘Black leather.’

  ‘Kinky,’ says Natalka.

  Edwin laughs and tries to turn it into a cough.

  ‘We’ve put out an alert,’ says DS Kaur, ‘but it’s hard because we haven’t got a lead on the car. There’s CCTV in the car park and in the lobby though. I’ll look at that.’

  ‘Do you think he’ll come back?’ says Edwin. He looks both nervous and excited, which Benedict thinks probably mirrors his own emotions. They both need to get out more.

  ‘I wouldn’t think so,’ says Kaur. ‘But there’ll be a police presence here for the next twenty-four hours. Try not to worry.’

  ‘I’m not worried,’ says Edwin, fiddling with a button. He’s obviously in his evening attire, leather slippers and a cardigan in place of his usual jacket.

  ‘You should be,’ says Natalka. ‘They are out to get us.’

  ‘Who?’ says Edwin. ‘Who is out to get us?’

  ‘The people who killed Peggy,’ says Natalka.

  ‘Hold on a minute,’ says DS Kaur. ‘We don’t know that Peggy was murdered. The death certificate says that she died of a heart attack.’

  ‘Then how do you explain the gunman?’ says Natalka.

  Kaur gives Natalka a rather exasperated look. She’s about to answer when there’s a knock on the door. Edwin puts his hand to his chest and Benedict feels his own heart beating faster. Harbinder goes to the door.

  ‘What’s happening?’ says a woman’s voice. ‘I got an alert from the emergency services.’

  ‘Alison,’ says Edwin. ‘You’ll never guess what’s been going on.’

  This must be Alison Slopes, the warden of Seaview Court. She doesn’t live in but has an office on the first floor and is meant to be contacted in an emergency. Benedict met Alison for the first time at Peggy’s funeral earlier. She’s a pleasant-looking woman in her early fifties, still wearing her black suit but now accessorised by pink running shoes.

  ‘There’s been a report of a man with a gun,’ says DS Kaur.

  ‘What do you mean?’ says Natalka. ‘There’s been a report? I saw him. Benny saw him. He pointed a gun at us.’

  ‘A gun?’ says Alison. She sits down heavily on Edwin’s cream sofa.

  ‘We were in Peggy’s flat,’ says Natalka, ‘when a man came in and pointed a gun at us. Then he ran off with a book.’

  ‘With a book?’ says Alison.

  ‘Some old book no one’s heard of,’ says Natalka.

  ‘Not a Dex Challoner then?’ says Alison. ‘I love the Tod France books. I always treat myself to a hardback when a new book comes out. Dex was at the funeral, you know.’

  ‘We know,’ says DS Kaur, seeming rather impatient with this book club chat. ‘And we’re taking this report,’ she glances at Natalka, ‘very seriously. But there’s no need for alarm. I was just telling Edwin that we’ll keep the flats under surveillance for twenty-four hours.’

  ‘Do you think he’ll come back then?’ says Alison, echoing Edwin earlier.

  ‘We’ve no reason to think so,’ says Kaur. But Benedict thinks that she looks rather worried all the same.

  * * *

  BENEDICT INSISTS ON walking Natalka home, even though she says it’s not necessary. She rents a room in a house near the church. She complains because the family keep inviting her to share meals with them but Benedict thinks it sounds friendlier than his own bedsit where, sometimes, he doesn’t hear a human voice from five p.m. (when the Coffee Shack closes) until seven the next morning, unless you count Radio 4, which he doesn’t.

  He says goodbye to Natalka in a porch full of bicycles and other detritus of family life. They hug, which is unusual for them, and the warmth of it carries Benedict along the high street and towards the river. His bedsit is on the top floor of a large Victorian house. It’s a nice room, large and airy, overlooking the estuary. Benedict can look down on the masts of boats and on the fast-flowing water and sludgy mud. At night he can hear the boom of the fog horn and watch as the lighthouse beam flickers across his window. He likes the light; it’s company. Some of the other residents complain about it and put up blackout blinds but Benedict keeps his curtains open, which is probably why he wakes up so early every morning.

  This is the first time Benedict has lived on his own. He went straight from school to the seminary in Wonersh. He’d loved it, the place had been his university, but then he’d been sent to Rome. A compliment, everybody said; a sign that the church had him destined for higher things. But, although he’d loved the city, he found the work hard and he’d struggled because he didn’t speak any Italian. He had Latin A-Level though, which had helped. It was Rome that had convinced him to become a monk, against his superiors’ advice. They had wanted him for the hierarchy. Like the mafia, his friend Francis said. But the hours spent on his own in Roman churches, the only sounds distant bells and the sigh of his own breathing, made him yearn for the contemplative life. He joined the community at St Bede’s as a postulant and, after nine months, started his novitiate. The ceremony that marked the beginning of this phase of his life remains etched on his mind. He entered the chapter house wearing his ordinary clothes—​and very ordinary they were, too, after years in a seminary—​to find the habit of the order laid out on the trestle table: tunic, belt, scapular and hood. Benedict had to signify his acceptance of monastic life by putting his hands on these clothes and, presently, changing into them. He remembers how thrilling, how dramatic, they had seemed compared with his drab everyday garb. The choice had been easy.

  Then, six years later and a year after taking his solemn vows, Benedict had changed his mind again. This time it had not been easy. He had been so sure before that he doubted his own doubts. But his novice master, who had remained his confessor, supported him. It wasn’t that he had been wrong the first time, Brother Damian said, it was that God now had a different plan for him. His years of training for the priesthood and monastic life hadn’t been wasted; they were all part of a wider destiny. Benedict had clung to these words all through the trauma of leaving the community, with its comforting structure of chanting (eight times a day, starting at sunrise), physical work and prayer, for the daunting Outside World.

  His parents, having been shocked at his vocation, were now shocked at his abandoning it. But they did help him buy the Shack, and the proceeds from it pay for this room overlooking the harbour. In those last months at St Bede’s, the thought of being alone both terrified and thrilled him. The echo of your voice in an empty room, the freedom to wear pyjamas all day, to watch television, to eat cornflakes in bed. But, in reality, he still wakes up at five-thirty every day and is showered and dressed by six. That leaves a lot of hours to get throu
gh, even though he’s at the Coffee Shack from six until five. He was delighted by television at first and was thrilled to discover whole channels devoted to crime drama. He watched reruns of Morse, Vera and Midsomer Murders. He watched Father Brown, Monk (ha!) and Murder, She Wrote. He became an armchair expert in forensics, untraceable poisons and wild guesswork. When he’d met Peggy at the café the conversation had naturally turned to detective fiction and who would kill who and why. Edwin hadn’t shared their love of gore but his background in religious broadcasting meant that he and Benedict had some interesting chats about plainsong and polyphony. They had been happy times, Benedict realises now, sitting in the sunlight talking about Miss Marple and Gregorian chants. He wishes that, in true mindful, prayerful fashion, he had appreciated it more at the time.

  Can he use his second-hand detective skills now? Back in his bedroom, Benedict takes out a sheet of paper and notes down all that he can remember about the gunman. DS Kaur had been impressed that he had noticed the shoes, he remembers. What about smells? Benedict is proud of his olfactory powers. He could recognise every herb in the monastery garden and can tell different coffee beans from scent alone. Did the gunman smell of anything? Benedict closes his eyes to relive the scene: ‘Can you hear something?’, the door opening, the gun, the moment when he proved himself incapable of throwing himself in front of Natalka and becoming a hero. Had there been a smell? He can only think of Natalka who wears a lemony Chanel scent called Chance. He can smell books too, the daffodil-stalk freshness of new books and the mustiness of Peggy’s classic tomes. Why had the gunman picked up that particular book? Thank Heaven Fasting. It’s a quote from As You Like It, as he’d been about to tell Natalka. ‘Down on your knees And thank heaven, fasting, for a good man’s love.’ Not a very feminist sentiment. Why was that dated, out-of-print book so important that Shiny Shoe Man came after it with a gun? Would he have shot Benedict and Natalka for it if they’d put up a fight? Benedict suspects so somehow.

  He sits at his desk until it’s quite dark outside and he can see the harbour lights glowing on the water. Should he make himself something to eat? There’s a gas ring in his room, plus a microwave and mini-fridge, but Benedict doesn’t feel hungry. Maybe staring down the barrel of a gun does that to you. He decides to go downstairs to see if he has any post. He doesn’t get much, the occasional postcard from his mother or a letter from Francis, written in his careful Jesuit hand. Might as well check though. He pads down in his socks and sifts through the teetering pile of junk mail: takeaways, old political leaflets, the scientologists looking for new recruits. Then he sees something on the floor by the doormat. It’s a flyer showing a book with a skyscraper on the cover.