‘No.’ Miles hesitates, raises his hand to his hair and then seems to think better of it. ‘But, funnily enough, Lance got in contact a few months ago. He said he was writing something new. He seemed very excited about it.’
‘Do you know anything about Lance’s background?’ says Sheena. ‘We know that he’s divorced. Do you know if he has any parents still alive? Siblings?’
‘Sorry. No. Jelli would know more than me.’
But Harbinder knows that the police have already spoken to the agent who, apparently, was not in Aberdeen for the crime-writing festival.
‘What about Dex Challoner?’ says Jim. ‘Were you close to him?’
Miles glances at Harbinder. ‘As DS Kaur knows, I was Dex’s editor for the last three books.’
‘Did Dex know Lance Foster?’
‘He never mentioned him to me but writers tend to know each other. Especially crime writers. It’s a small world. And a sociable one.’
Thinking of the people milling about downstairs, Harbinder believes him.
‘Did you see Lance Foster last night?’ asks Jim.
‘No. I went out for a meal with some colleagues and a couple of our authors.’
‘What time did you get back to the hotel?’
‘About midnight, I think.’
Jim asks for the names of Miles’s colleagues and Sheena writes them down. Harbinder would have made notes herself, even if she was a DI.
‘Lance Foster had apparently received a threatening letter,’ says Jim. ‘Do you know anything about that?’
‘No,’ says Miles.
Before he can say again that he didn’t really know Lance, Harbinder says, ‘The message is, “We are coming for you.” We found a similar postcard in Peggy’s flat, in one of Dex’s books. Did Dex ever mention receiving a message like that?’
‘“We are coming for you”,’ Miles repeats. ‘It sounds familiar. Is it a quote? Dex never mentioned a threatening letter to me.’
‘J. D. Monroe received one too.’
‘Julie?’ Now Miles does look shocked. ‘Who would threaten Julie?’
He doesn’t, Harbinder thinks, sound surprised that anyone would threaten Lance. Or Dex.
* * *
THEY BREAK FOR lunch at one. Jim has sandwiches sent in for the team but Harbinder decides to go down to the hotel restaurant. The Majestic is providing a cold meal for any of the guests still in residence and Harbinder thinks that she might find Natalka and co. there. But, when she gets to the dining room, the huge room is empty apart from Julie Monroe sitting at a table under the glass roof, typing furiously into her laptop. Harbinder doesn’t know whether to interrupt or not but Julie looks up and smiles.
‘Do join me. It’s quite spooky in here on my own.’
‘I don’t want to interrupt your work.’ Harbinder finds it hard to think of writing books as work but this seems the polite thing to say.
‘It’s a way of escaping,’ says Julie, shutting her laptop. ‘Just for a moment, I can disappear into a different world. Of course, it helps that my books are all set on sunny beaches in beautiful parts of the world. It might be different if I was writing about the grim streets of Aberdeen.’
‘Can you really write here,’ says Harbinder, ‘in the middle of a restaurant?’
‘With all these crowds, you mean?’ says Julie, looking round at the empty tables. There must be at least fifty of them. ‘But, yes. I can work anywhere. In cafés, on buses, on the beach. I like to hear people around me, the buzz of conversation. Maybe it’s because I live alone. You have to escape the silence.’
‘I live with my parents,’ says Harbinder. ‘The house is always full of people. My brothers, their children, my parents’ friends, their idiot dog. Silence sounds wonderful to me.’
‘You see, your house sounds wonderful to me,’ says Julie. ‘I’m an only child and my parents are dead. I’d love to be surrounded by people.’
Harbinder wonders how they have got to this point so quickly. Normally, it takes her several weeks of acquaintance to admit to living with her parents.
‘Do you know anything about this safe house?’ says Julie.
‘Not really,’ says Harbinder. ‘But Jim—DI Harris—said that it was on the coast near here.’
‘Of course, you must be used to all this,’ says Julie, ‘but it seems rather terrifying to me.’
She doesn’t look terrified, thinks Harbinder, particularly when you think that Julie is the one who has received a threatening note and the other two recipients of similar notes are dead. But Harbinder quite likes the idea of herself as a hardened veteran.
‘I’ve been involved in a few murder cases,’ she says. ‘One up in Scotland, actually. That’s how I know DI Harris.’
Luckily, because she shouldn’t really say more, they hear voices in the lobby and Natalka, Benedict and Edwin appear, accompanied by two uniformed police officers.
‘Edwin!’ Julie waves. ‘Natalka! Benedict!’ Harbinder wonders how they have all got so friendly so quickly. Then she remembers the selfie. Julie is obviously the sort of person who forms instant relationships. She probably forgets people at the same rate.
‘So exciting,’ says Edwin, coming over and kissing Julie on both cheeks. ‘We got a police escort here. Even though it’s only five minutes’ walk away.’
‘They’re putting us up in a safe house,’ says Natalka to Harbinder. ‘Did you know about this?’
‘I’ve only just heard,’ she says.
‘The Aberdeenshire coast is beautiful,’ says Edwin, as if this is a mini-break.
‘They can’t force us to go,’ says Natalka. ‘I’ve got my car. I could just drive home.’
Harbinder thinks that Natalka is the only one who looks properly shocked. She wonders why. After all, this road trip was all Natalka’s idea. Why does she want to give up now? Natalka didn’t show any squeamishness at Dex’s death. Maybe she had really liked Lance Foster.
‘We’re all in this together now,’ says Edwin. He looks positively thrilled at the thought.
* * *
THE LUNCH OF cold meat and salad is unappetising. Harbinder suspects that most of the catering staff have gone home. Julie is a vegetarian and, after a while, someone provides her with a wrinkled-looking baked potato. Inevitably, the talk turns to the case. Harbinder is forced to drop some of her professional detachment. After all, she wants to know what they have discovered. There’s no point in keeping Julie out of the loop either. She’s obviously avid for news.
‘Edwin,’ says Harbinder. ‘You saw Nigel Smith at the Travelodge, didn’t you? It’s just that there’s no record of him staying there.’
‘Yes,’ says Edwin. ‘It was definitely him.’
‘And I saw him yesterday,’ says Benedict, ‘having lunch with Lance. I told DI Harris.’
‘Maybe Nigel is having an affair,’ says Natalka, brightening slightly, ‘like I always said.’
Could that be the answer? thinks Harbinder. She wouldn’t put it past Nigel, although his wife is far more attractive than he deserves.
‘I’ve been doing some research,’ says Benedict, ‘and Nigel and Lance were at school together.’
Harbinder was right; Benedict would make a good detective.
‘That can’t be right,’ says Natalka. ‘Nigel is much older.’
‘They’re both fifty-five,’ says Benedict. ‘And they both went to Denham College in Tunbridge Wells. It’s a private school. Fees ten grand a term. Lance is on the alumni page and there’s a picture of Nigel at one of the reunions.’
‘Ten thousand a term,’ says Natalka. ‘That’s two hundred and ten thousand pounds for seven years.’ Harbinder remembers that she used to study maths.
‘Were they just having an old school reunion?’ says Harbinder. ‘But why all the secrecy? I saw Nigel on Tuesday morning and he didn’t say anything about going to Aberdeen.’
‘I still think he’s having an affair,’ says Natalka. ‘That’s why men stay at hotels under assumed names.’
‘I can’t imagine any woman looking twice at Nigel,’ says Harbinder.
‘Maybe he was having an affair with Lance,’ says Julie.
‘That’s what I said,’ says Natalka.
‘He’s not the sort of man a gay man would fancy,’ says Edwin firmly.
‘There’s still the school link though,’ says Benedict, who seems reluctant to give up on his lead.
‘Yes,’ says Harbinder. ‘I’ll tell the investigating team. It’s suspicious too if Nigel checked in under a false name. And Nigel was in the cadets at school. He probably knows how to fire a gun.’
‘I don’t think they let cadets near real guns,’ says Benedict. ‘My brother Hugo was in the CCF. All they did was throw smoke pellets at the local comprehensive school.’
* * *
AFTER LUNCH, THE amateur sleuths sit in the lobby and try to think of motive and means. The police officers watch them gloomily from another table. Harbinder is about to go back upstairs when her phone buzzes. It’s Neil so she finds a discreet corner, framed by potted palm trees, to answer it.
‘How’s bonny Scotland?’ says Neil.
‘Cold,’ says Harbinder.
‘Thought you’d like to know,’ says Neil, ‘we looked into Peggy Smith’s bank account, like you said. And, guess what?’
‘What?’ says Harbinder. She doesn’t know why Neil seems to expect praise for perfectly normal CID procedure.
‘Someone’s been withdrawing money from Peggy’s account, just a little each week, but it adds up to quite a lot.’
‘Nigel?’ says Peggy. ‘Remember Joan said that he took all her money?’
‘But why would Nigel want money? You’ve seen his house.’
She doesn’t want Neil to start going on about the perfect all-white village so she says, quickly, ‘Apparently Nigel was here, in Aberdeen, yesterday. He stayed at the Travelodge but there’s no record of him. And he was at school with Lance Foster.’
‘Should I pay him another visit, do you think?’
‘I think you should. Edwin is sure that he saw him in Aberdeen.’
‘Edwin is about a hundred though.’
‘He’s eighty and he’s got all his marbles. Go and see Nigel.’
Harbinder clicks off before Neil can remind her that she’s not his boss. As she does so, another message flashes up. Natalka.
Can I talk to you. In private.
28
Edwin
The Wind in the Door
EDWIN FEELS RATHER guilty at enjoying himself so much. Of course, he’s very sorry that a man has died. Lance Foster was young (by Edwin’s standards anyway) and pleasant enough. He certainly didn’t deserve to be murdered in a depressing hotel room. If he was murdered, of course, but the way the police are fussing round them now certainly seems to suggest that was the case. But, all the same, the horror of the discovery, the interest of the investigation and now the prospect of moving to a safe house in an unspecified location, have had a remarkably rejuvenating effect on Edwin. He feels full of energy. At lunch he finishes off Natalka’s roll and has two cups of coffee. He’s positively buzzing.
Natalka, on the other hand, seems distinctly out of sorts. Of course, finding a dead body would upset anyone. Once or twice Edwin thinks he notices Benedict looking at Natalka with a worried expression. They must both look after her, he thinks, feeling pleasantly protective. She’s only young, after all.
Benedict seems intrigued by the whole thing. Of course, he loves detective fiction—he was even enthralled by a late afternoon showing of Murder, She Wrote that day at the Miners’ Arms—but now Edwin detects a gleam in his eyes that Sergeant Cuff in The Moonstone would identify as ‘detective fever’. ‘The clue is in the books,’ he keeps saying, ‘it must be. I bought Laocoön yesterday. I must read it carefully.’
‘I couldn’t get past the first page,’ says Julie. She, too, seems surprisingly cheerful. No one mentions the obvious fact that what links Dex, Lance and Julie are the anonymous notes and two of the recipients are now dead. Julie says a couple of times that she is ‘really scared’ but she doesn’t look it. She goes to the kitchens to look for more coffee and comes back with a thermos and a tin of biscuits. Julie, Benedict and Edwin repair to a sofa in the lobby for more detecting. Natalka seems to have disappeared with DS Kaur.
Benedict draws a chart with the names Dex, Lance and Peggy on it and lots of connecting arrows. It’s making Edwin’s head swim. Plus, all that coffee has necessitated several trips to the loo which is an unreasonable distance away, along corridors with dado rails, clashing wallpaper and a preponderance of stags’ heads, through several swing doors and past a room marked ‘Electricity. Do not enter.’ A few years ago, Peggy gave Edwin a Fitbit for Christmas and he had briefly been obsessed with doing his ten thousand steps a day. He’s pretty sure he’s done most of them today, to and from the Gents. There is a strange moustachioed face on the door, to differentiate it from the Ladies which has a woman in a poke bonnet, and it’s starting to look rather demonic.
On his last trip back to the lobby, he’s surprised to hear someone hailing him from behind a palm tree.
‘Edwin!’
It’s Freddie Fanshawe with a manbag slung across his chest and a wheelie suitcase at his feet.
‘Are you off?’ says Edwin.
‘Yes. Seemed easiest to get a taxi from here. What about you?’
‘I’m staying for a day or so,’ says Edwin. He can’t resist adding, ‘The police are putting me and some friends in a safe house.’
Freddie looks at him with mingled respect and, it seems, amusement.
‘Good grief, Edwin, you do live, don’t you?’
‘I do,’ says Edwin. ‘I wish I could say the same for Dex Challoner and Lance Foster.’
‘Is this because of the Dex Challoner connection?’ says Freddie.
‘In a way,’ says Edwin. He doesn’t want to admit to finding Lance’s body. That would seem a bit too connected.
‘You might be interested in something I heard about Dex Challoner,’ says Freddie. ‘Apparently he had delivered the next Tod France novel. Then he was going to write a stand-alone and then he wanted to give up writing altogether. Apparently his agent was furious.’
‘Why would a writer give up writing?’
‘I don’t know. I mean, they hardly ever do, do they? They keep on writing the same old stuff until we’re all thoroughly sick of them.’
Edwin thinks that Freddie sounds far too cynical for an arts correspondent. He should try being a sports reporter, like Nicky, spending hours on some freezing touchline pretending to care whether someone-or-other United beat so-and-so Wanderers. That would show him how lucky he is. All the same, the news about Dex is interesting.
‘How do you know this?’ he asks.
‘Can’t reveal my sources,’ says Freddie, putting a finger alongside his nose. ‘Oh, there’s Ginny waving. My taxi must be here. Goodbye, Edwin. Try not to get mixed up in any more murders.’
He trundles away, leaving Edwin feeling thoughtful. When he gets back to the sofa, he almost tells Benedict and Julie, but they are deep in a discussion about means and motive. ‘But what’s Nigel’s motive for Lance? Maybe he bullied him at school?’ Eventually Edwin falls asleep.
He is woken by a voice saying, ‘Sleep, Little Three-Eyes.’ A face is bending over him and, for a wild moment, Edwin thinks it’s his mother, who died more than thirty years ago. Thank goodness he doesn’t say anything embarrassing like, ‘Mummy’. Instead, he rubs his eyes and sees that it’s Natalka. Funnily enough, something in her face, maybe its extreme symmetry, does recall Edwin’s mother, who was a famous beauty in her day.
‘We’re off,’ says Natalka. Edwin sees that DS Kaur is there, accompanied by a tall, blond man.
‘This is Miles Taylor,’ she says. ‘He was Lance’s editor. And Dex’s. He’s coming with us.’
‘I really don’t think it’s necessary.’ Miles looks extremely put out.
‘It’s just a precaution. Just for one night.’ The red-haired policeman, DI Harris, has joined them. ‘The house is in Cove Bay. It’s a bonny place.’
Edwin doesn’t think he’s heard the word ‘bonny’ used in conversation before. He thinks it’s charming. Harris is rather attractive in a bony, cadaverous way. He notes that Natalka and Julie are gazing up at him as if he is about to impart the secrets of the universe.
‘If you want to take your car,’ Harris is saying to Natalka, ‘I’ll send an officer to go with you.’
‘I’ll be OK,’ says Natalka. ‘Benny can come with me.’
‘Nevertheless,’ says Harris, ‘an officer will accompany you.’
Even Natalka does not argue with that.
Edwin, Miles, Julie and DS Kaur are driven by Harris himself, DS Kaur in the front, as befits her status. It’s a beautiful drive. They cross a bridge and leave the town behind them, passing between stone houses, softened by the afternoon light. After about fifteen minutes they reach the sea, mossy cliffs heading straight into water, waves crashing against the rocks.
‘There’s the house,’ says Harris.
It’s a modern, white-walled building, perched on the very top of the cliff. Below it, a concrete slope leads down into the water. When they get out of the car, the strong, salty wind almost takes Edwin’s breath away. He wraps his tartan scarf round his neck. Natalka is parking in the driveway. Harris gets out the keys. ‘It’s quite basic,’ he says, ‘but I think you’ll be comfortable.’
The house is perfect: wooden floors, white walls, minimal furniture. From the sitting room, you can hear the waves slapping against the harbour wall. There are four bedrooms upstairs and one downstairs.
‘I can’t share a room,’ says Miles immediately. ‘I have space issues.’
That probably means Miles snores, thinks Edwin. Thank goodness he doesn’t.
‘Julie and I will share,’ says Natalka. The two women seem to have become close quite quickly. They take a room that looks like it was decorated for children, complete with bunk beds and Tintin wallpaper. This leaves two singles upstairs and one double, plus a smaller double downstairs.
The Postscript Murders Page 22