The Postscript Murders

by Elly Griffiths

  ‘I don’t mind sleeping downstairs,’ says Edwin. He has already worked out that this means easier access to the loo. Upstairs, DS Kaur gets the double, to her obvious satisfaction, and Miles and Benedict the two singles.

  ‘I hope the curtains are dark enough,’ says Miles. ‘I’m used to blackout blinds.’

  Miles is obviously going to be a trial.

  ‘There’ll be a patrol car outside all night,’ says Harris. ‘Any problems, Harbinder, just call me.’

  ‘I will,’ says DS Kaur, who is examining the TV.

  ‘Is there any food?’ says Natalka.

  ‘I almost forgot.’ Harris goes to the car and comes back with two carrier bags. ‘Sheena went shopping for you.’

  Edwin notes that macho Mr Harris didn’t do the shopping himself. He’s pleased to see that Sheena has included a couple of bottles of wine.

  * * *

  BENEDICT AND NATALKA cook them spaghetti bolognaise for supper, with a vegetarian version for Julie. It’s very good, helped down by the red wine. They talk about Scotland, food, holidays—​anything but murder. Edwin is surprised to find out that Miles went to university in Aberdeen. That hair is so very Oxbridge. But Miles is actually rather interesting about Scottish history and his voice takes on a distinctly Highland lilt as he talks. He’s talking about Mary Queen of Scots when Harbinder says, ‘Who was Darnley?’

  ‘Why do you ask?’

  ‘I saw it on a hotel room.’

  Miles looks surprised but says, ‘Charles Darnley was Mary’s second husband. He was murdered at Kirk O’Field.’

  ‘I heard he was gay,’ says Edwin.

  ‘There’s no evidence either way,’ says Miles. ‘Darnley was the father of Mary’s son, who became James the first of England.’

  ‘Doesn’t stop him being gay,’ says Edwin.

  ‘No, it doesn’t. Anyway, Darnley came to a horrible end. His house was blown up. Darnley and his valet were found dead in the adjoining field. Of course, it’s believed that Darnley murdered David Rizzio, the Italian musician who may or may not have been Mary’s lover.’

  ‘So many murders,’ says Edwin, thinking that Scotland hasn’t changed.

  It seems that DS Kaur—​Harbinder to them now—​is thinking along the same lines.

  ‘Last time I was in Scotland,’ she says, ‘I was on the trail of a murderer, a very dangerous character. I arrived just as he was about to stab this teenage girl. I jumped on him and Jim, DI Harris, came flying through the door and took him down with a rugby tackle.’

  ‘Goodness,’ says Edwin, ‘you do have an exciting job.’

  ‘It’s not usually that exciting,’ says Harbinder. ‘Mostly I’m sitting outside Shoreham power station looking for non-existent terrorists.’

  ‘I can just imagine DI Harris charging in like that,’ says Julie. ‘He’s very macho, isn’t he?’

  Harbinder agrees that he is, although her voice implies that this isn’t necessarily a good thing.

  ‘I saw lots of macho men back home in Ukraine,’ says Natalka. ‘When the war came they all turned out to be cowards.’

  Miles turns to look at her. ‘Oh, are you from Ukraine? Do you know . . .’ He mentions a name but his accent is so heavy (pretentious, Edwin thinks) that it’s incomprehensible.

  ‘Yes,’ says Natalka. ‘How do you know it?’

  ‘I studied Russian at university and spent a year in Moscow.’

  ‘You didn’t mention that before,’ says Harbinder.

  ‘It didn’t seem relevant,’ says Miles.

  Edwin thinks that Harbinder looks rather irritated but he can’t think why.

  ‘I heard something interesting today,’ he says. ‘Freddie Fanshawe, my BBC friend, said that Dex Challoner was planning to give up writing for good.’

  ‘That’s not true,’ says Miles quickly. ‘Dex had already delivered the next Tod France and he was very excited about a new project.’

  ‘The Murder Consultant,’ says Harbinder.

  Miles gapes at her in a very uncouth way. ‘How did you know that?’

  ‘His agent told me.’

  ‘Jelli Walker-Thompson,’ says Julie. ‘She’s my agent too.’

  ‘And Lance’s,’ says Benedict. He’s been very quiet throughout the meal but Edwin thinks that his mind is working furiously. Another sign of Detective Fever.

  ‘Remember the panel yesterday?’ says Benedict. ‘Lance said that he was working on something new. He said that he was very excited about it.’

  ‘Well, he won’t write it now,’ says Natalka.

  ‘Two writers who were excited about starting new projects and now they’re both dead,’ says Benedict. ‘It makes you think, doesn’t it?’

  This has the effect of silencing the supper party.

  * * *

  HARBINDER HASN’T BEEN able to make the TV work so, after supper, they play cards. Benedict finds an ancient pack of cards in the dresser, the joker marked up as the ace of hearts. They play rummy, which Harbinder has never played before.

  ‘We didn’t really play cards in my family,’ she says apologetically.

  ‘My family played all the time,’ says Natalka, ‘even on the beach. My dad was a real card expert . . . What do you say here? Card sharp?’ And it seems that Natalka takes after him; she wins round after round. Harbinder learns quickly but makes mistakes, Benedict is surprisingly reckless, Miles methodical, Julie very careless. Edwin finds it hard to concentrate. The picture cards look up at him with their cold profiles: king, queen, jack. Which is which? Natalka is undoubtedly the queen of hearts, Harbinder the queen of diamonds. Does that make Julie a club or a spade?

  ‘This is so strange,’ says Julie. ‘It’s almost like being on holiday but we’re in a police safe house hiding from a murderer.’

  Her words make them all pause, cards in hand. The table is lit by a standard lamp but otherwise the room is in shadow. The wind has grown stronger over the course of the evening and, occasionally, the windows shake and the curtains fly inwards.

  ‘We’re not exactly hiding,’ says Natalka. ‘Living in a white house on the top of a cliff.’ Even so, Edwin thinks that she is the one who is most spooked by Julie’s words.

  Benedict says, soothingly, ‘We’re quite safe. I mean, there are police outside.’

  Harbinder had offered the officers some of the pasta but reported that they were eating fish and chips in the car. Edwin hopes that the heavy meal hasn’t sent them to sleep.

  ‘Lance thought he was safe,’ says Natalka. ‘Then he was murdered.’

  ‘We don’t know that he was murdered,’ says Edwin.

  ‘Of course he was,’ says Miles, shuffling cards rather clumsily. ‘Why do you think we’re here?’

  Outside, the wind howls.

  * * *

  IN HIS DOWNSTAIRS room, which is actually very comfortable, Edwin puts on his pyjamas and gets into bed. He has a book with him, The Mating Season by P. G. Wodehouse, which always cheers him up, but somehow he can’t lose himself in the wonderful world of Bertie Wooster. The wind is still making a nuisance of itself. The door is rattling away as if a madman is trying to gain admittance. Suddenly Edwin thinks of a quotation, from Malory, he thinks, probably Le Morte d’Arthur. What, nephew, said the king, is the wind in that door? He thinks of the cards: king, queen, jack. Hearts, clubs, diamonds, spades. He can hear the waves crashing against the harbour wall. Something is knocked over outside, probably a dustbin. Edwin gets up and goes to the window. The road is empty. Where’s the police car that’s meant to be protecting them? The pampas grass in the garden is waving furiously. Edwin gets back into bed.

  A few seconds later, he puts Bertie down again. He can hear another noise, a scrunching regular sound that stops and then starts again. Someone is unmistakably walking on the gravel path around the house. Edwin puts on his dressing gown and goes out to the hallway. There he meets Harbinder, who is still fully dressed.

  ‘Did you hear that?’ he says.

  ‘Yes,’
she says. ‘Could be nothing. Could be a cat.’

  ‘A cat wearing hob-nailed boots,’ says Edwin.

  Harbinder opens the front door. A blast of cold air blows her hair back.

  ‘The squad car isn’t there,’ she says. ‘They must have driven round the block.’

  There’s no block here, on the very eastern edge of Scotland, but Edwin doesn’t say so. Harbinder switches on her phone torch. ‘Is anyone there?’

  The wind takes the power from her words. Harbinder sounds scared and, suddenly, very young. Edwin joins her in the doorway.

  ‘I’m going to look,’ she says.

  ‘I’ll come with you.’

  ‘No, you stay here. We can’t leave the door open.’

  Harbinder is only gone for a few minutes. When she gets back, she says, ‘There’s no one there and the squad car is back. Everything’s OK.’

  But she double-locks the door carefully.

  29

  Harbinder

  Amanuensis

  HARBINDER GOES SLOWLY back upstairs. The noise outside could easily have been the wind, or an animal like a fox or a cat, but she can’t help thinking about her conversation with Natalka earlier.

  They had found a little sitting room in the hotel, complete with stag’s head and several bird collages made from actual feathers. Natalka, curled up in an armchair, looked pale and heavy-eyed.

  ‘Why did you want to see me?’ asked Harbinder.

  ‘You know I told you about the two men in the car?’ said Natalka. ‘Well, I think they followed me here. The other night, in the pub, I heard two men talking in Ukrainian. They were talking about me.’

  ‘Are you sure?’

  ‘They said, “I’d know that face anywhere.” ’

  ‘Do you recognise them?’

  ‘Benny managed to take a photo but it was hard to see. They were youngish, maybe in their thirties, with short hair. I don’t think I recognised them. But how many Ukrainians do you get in Aberdeen?’

  ‘Have you told DI Harris?’

  ‘No. He already thinks we’re all crazy.’

  Harbinder thought that this was probably true.

  ‘Well, we’re going to a safe house tonight,’ she said. ‘They can’t follow you there.’

  Natalka had looked unconvinced and now Harbinder doesn’t feel quite so confident. What if the mysterious men have followed her? The unarmed officers outside will be no match against the Ukrainian mafia. Harbinder can hear conversation and muffled laughter coming from the room that Natalka and Julie are sharing. For a moment she’s almost tempted to join them but she’s never been one for girl talk, even when she was a girl.

  There’s a murmur coming from Miles’s room, as if he’s speaking on his phone. No sound from Benedict. Maybe he’s praying? But it’s hard to keep thinking of Benedict as an unworldly, monk-like figure. He seems different in Aberdeen, more definite somehow. He has obviously been supporting Natalka, and probably Edwin too. Not that Edwin needs support. He’d been very calm just now when any of the others would probably have freaked out. Harbinder goes into her room. She’s so pleased to have scored the double bed and en suite. Well, she deserves it, she tells herself. After all, she’s the only one who is actually still working. With this in mind, she checks her email before getting into bed and playing Panda Pop for half an hour.

  * * *

  SHE WAKES UP early the next morning. The sun has made its way through the thin curtains. Miles won’t have slept a wink. Harbinder lies completely still for a few moments enjoying the warmth and the sound of the seagulls. She wonders what’s going to happen today. Jim must be certain that Lance was murdered, otherwise why go to the expense of a safe house? Will he want to interview them again? She thinks that he’s rather intrigued by Natalka and Benedict, although he seems to have convinced himself that Edwin is a prince amongst men. And what’s her role in this, other than to provide some background about Dex Challoner and Peggy Smith? She told Jim her suspicions that Peggy might have been murdered by the same method used to kill Lance Foster. Jim had listened politely but she’s pretty sure he has discounted her theory. An old lady dying alone in Shoreham doesn’t interest him. He’s only really concerned with his own dead body. How come Jim is a DI and Harbinder isn’t? But she can’t waste time thinking about this. She’s got a job to do and it’s time to get up.

  She showers in her posh en suite. Should she have offered this room to Edwin, as the oldest? Her mother would definitely think so. But Edwin had seemed perfectly happy with his allocation. She dresses quickly in jeans and a jumper and goes downstairs.

  Sure enough, Miles is in the kitchen, moodily eating toast. Edwin is also there, gazing at the kettle as if willing it to work. There’s a cafetière beside him and a delicious smell of coffee in the air. The clock has hands in the shape of carrots chasing sundry vegetables around the dial. It’s seven-thirty, a carrot past a radish.

  ‘Morning,’ says Harbinder. ‘Did everyone sleep well?’

  ‘Like a log,’ says Edwin, pouring boiling water onto the coffee.

  ‘Very fitfully,’ says Miles. ‘I think I’m allergic to the pillows here.’

  Harbinder ignores this and gratefully accepts a cup of coffee from Edwin. She makes herself some toast and spreads it with butter and Marmite. As she does so, she can hear her father’s voice. ‘Marmite is just one reason why the British will never be a civilised nation.’

  Absorbed in her breakfast, it’s a couple of seconds before she realises that Miles is talking to her.

  ‘. . . like to talk to you,’ he is saying. ‘Shall we have a walk on the beach?’

  Harbinder looks at Edwin who raises an eyebrow at her. ‘Don’t mind me,’ he says, ‘I’m quite happy here with P. G. Wodehouse.’

  The squad car is outside and Harbinder stops to talk to the occupants, a different pair from yesterday. She offers them coffee but they say that they have already stopped at McDonald’s. The car smells faintly of waffles.

  ‘Anything to report last night?’ she says. ‘I thought I heard someone moving around out here.’

  ‘That’ll be the wind,’ says one of the policemen. ‘It was a wee bit blashie last night.’

  That must mean windy, thinks Harbinder. It’s a good onomatopoeic word but she doesn’t think that it explains the sounds outside the house.

  Harbinder and Miles walk along the shingle beach. It’s another beautiful morning, the air fresh and smelling of the sea. There are a few fishing boats moored above the tide line and a fisherman sits mending his nets on the harbour wall.

  ‘I’ve got friends who live near here,’ says Miles. ‘The landowner keeps trying to stop the fishing but it’s been happening for hundreds of years. It’s a way of life for these folk.’

  ‘That’s tough,’ says Harbinder. She has noticed before that Miles seems more approachable when he’s talking about Scotland.

  They continue walking towards the end of the bay, slipping a little on the wet pebbles. Miles finds a flat stone and attempts to skim it. Harbinder wonders when he’s going to tell her what’s on his mind.

  ‘You wanted to talk to me?’ she prompts.

  ‘It might not be important,’ says Miles, ‘but I had a rather strange email last night.’

  ‘Strange in what way?’ says Harbinder. She is thinking of the postcards. We are coming for you.

  ‘An unsolicited manuscript,’ he says. ‘A book from someone I don’t know.’

  ‘But that must happen all the time.’

  ‘Seventh Seal only accepts manuscripts via agents,’ says Miles. ‘This one’s from an address that I’ve never heard of.’

  ‘Is that so unusual?’ asks Harbinder. She watches as a seagull swoops low over the waves. The sky is cloudier now and the wind stronger.

  ‘Not necessarily,’ says Miles, ‘but when I looked at the synopsis, it’s an exact copy of a Dex Challoner novel.’

  Harbinder still doesn’t see why this is so surprising. Surely plagiarism, conscious or unconsci
ous, must be part of a fiction editor’s life. She says as much.

  ‘It’s a copy of an unpublished Dex Challoner novel,’ says Miles. ‘In fact, it’s one that Dex hadn’t written yet. Now he never will, of course.’

  Harbinder thinks that she gets it now. ‘The Murder Consultant?’

  ‘Yes. It was a top-secret project. Only Jelli and I knew about it, as far as I know. I suppose Dex might have told Mia and his closest friends, though he wasn’t the sort of writer who talked much about his work in progress.’

  ‘He talked to Peggy,’ says Harbinder, thinking of the note she had seen. Do help me, darling. I’ve got to give Miles the rough draft next week.

  ‘I meant he didn’t have hundreds of beta readers out there.’

  ‘Beta readers?’

  ‘People who read an author’s book before the publisher sees it. Often they’re friends of the author. They pick up mistakes, offer suggestions, that sort of thing. It can be a useful process but Dex didn’t work like that. Apart from Mia, Jelli and I were always the first people to see the manuscript. It was the same with Betty, his previous editor.’

  ‘How similar is this book to the one that Dex was planning?’

  ‘According to the synopsis, it’s almost identical. It’s about an old lady living in sheltered accommodation who solves murders. Based on Peggy, of course.’

  ‘What’s it called?’

  ‘Amanuensis. It’s trying quite hard to be literary and cool but it’s the same plot, all right.’

  ‘And you don’t know who sent it?’

  ‘No. It’s a Gmail address. Someone who calls themselves Booksdofurnish. It’s from an Anthony Powell novel, “Books do furnish a room”. ’

  Why do people insist on telling her this sort of stuff?

  ‘Did Peggy know that Dex was planning to write about her?’ says Harbinder.