‘Oh,’ she says. ‘It’s you.’ It seems that the veneer of civility is wearing thin.
‘Can we come in?’ says Harbinder. ‘Hallo, Ozzy.’ She tries, simultaneously, to pat the dog and push it away from her.
‘It’s not a very convenient time . . .’ says Sally. But Neil and Harbinder are already sitting at the breakfast bar with Ozymandias frisking fatly around them.
‘Where’s Nigel today?’ says Harbinder.
‘As I told your colleague,’ says Sally, ‘he’s in Frankfurt. On business.’ She has taken off her boots and looks somehow diminished in fluffy pink socks. She doesn’t offer them tea or coffee.
‘We’ve got several witnesses who saw Nigel in Aberdeen on Tuesday and Wednesday last week,’ says Harbinder. ‘Do you know what he was doing there?’
‘He wasn’t in Aberdeen,’ says Sally, but she turns away to fiddle with some roses in a vase. She’s a very bad liar.
‘Mrs Smith,’ says Harbinder. ‘Sally. We know that Nigel saw Lance Foster in Aberdeen. We know that Nigel and Lance were at school together. Lance was murdered on Wednesday evening. Unless you want your husband to be the number one suspect, you’d better tell us what Nigel was doing in Aberdeen.’
Sally turns. There’s a smear of mud on her cheek and she suddenly looks small and vulnerable. The cuckoo clock in the hall strikes ten, a raucous and somehow sinister cacophony.
‘I promised I wouldn’t tell.’
Don’t say anything, Harbinder warns Neil silently. Just wait. The clock continues to tick. Ozymandias licks his empty bowl in a meaningful way.
‘Nigel’s written a book,’ says Sally suddenly. Harbinder and Neil exchange glances. Whatever Harbinder expected, it wasn’t this.
‘It only took him a few weeks,’ says Sally. ‘But it’s awfully good. Nigel didn’t want people to know about it. I think he was a bit superstitious, not wanting people to know until it was actually published. I proofread it but I’m not clever enough to offer any real editorial advice. So Nigel thought of Lance. Like you said, they were at school together. They weren’t close friends but they kept in touch and Lance offered to read the book. For a fee, of course. Nigel sent Lance the manuscript and, a few days later, Lance sent back some notes. Nigel wanted to discuss them in person. He wasn’t sure that Lance had grasped quite what he was trying to do in the book.’
‘This book,’ says Harbinder. ‘Is it called Amanuensis?’
Now Neil and Sally both stare at her.
‘How could you possibly know that?’ says Sally. She sounds rather scared.
‘Miles Taylor told me about it,’ says Harbinder. ‘He seemed to think that it owed a lot to a book that Dex Challoner had been planning. Did Nigel overhear Dex discussing it with Peggy?’
‘He might have done,’ says Sally, her poise returning, ‘but Amanuensis was an utterly original piece of work.’
If you say so, thinks Harbinder. She doesn’t know if Nigel consciously copied Dex’s idea or whether he has convinced himself—and his wife—that it’s a unique work of staggering genius.
‘Nigel sent the book to Miles,’ says Sally. ‘Such a nice man. Peggy liked him too. You know, Miles was one of the students that I was telling you about? The ones Peggy helped in Russia. Nigel sent the manuscript to Miles anonymously so that Miles wouldn’t feel under any obligation to him.’
Or so that Miles wouldn’t make the link with Dex, thinks Harbinder. She is pretty sure that Nigel wants Miles to feel under a huge obligation to him.
‘I expect Miles will make Nigel an offer for the book,’ says Sally. ‘Nigel said that we could expect quite a sizable advance. I must say, we could do with the money.’
Really? thinks Harbinder, looking round at the kitchen, space-age cabinets nestling next to a classic Aga. If Sally and Nigel are hard-up, they must have a different definition of poverty. Then she thinks of Joan. He took all Peggy’s money. He said she gambled too much. She gambles too. Peggy said so. Who is the ‘she’ here? Sally?
‘Is that all?’ says Sally. ‘I really need to get on.’
And do what? thinks Harbinder. Aloud she says, ‘Thank you. You’ve been very helpful. We’ll see ourselves out.’
But Ozymandias accompanies them to the door, obviously under the illusion that they are all now best friends.
* * *
DRIVING THROUGH THE country roads to Maria’s house, Neil says, ‘I honestly think that you’re a witch sometimes, Harbinder. How the hell did you know about the book?’
Harbinder can’t help feeling pleased. ‘Miles Taylor told me about it. I knew that he was one of the students in Russia too.’
She tells Neil about Andriy, the Ukrainian gunman, and his search for revenge.
‘Jim Harris, the DI in Aberdeen, doesn’t think there’s a link between Dex’s murder and Lance’s death but I do. I think the link is back here, in Shoreham.’
‘Maria?’
‘Maybe. Is this her house?’
It’s a row of small terraced houses on the outskirts of Steyning. Very near Clare, in fact. But whereas Clare lives in a smart townhouse that has inexplicably transplanted itself to the Sussex countryside, these are small and boxy with pebbledash walls and woodwork in need of a coat of paint. Maria’s house has a neat front garden with roses growing on a trellis, a few still clinging on to life. But her next-door neighbour has two rusting cars on the drive and, on the other side, hens cluck in a makeshift coop.
‘I wouldn’t like to live here,’ says Neil, predictably.
‘Presumably it’s all they can afford,’ says Harbinder. Is this why Maria stole, and maybe also murdered? To get away from the used-car salesman and the chicken farmer? ‘Have you spoken to the neighbours?’
‘Not personally. I think a couple of PCs called round.’
‘Let’s try them now.’
There’s no one in the house with the cars on the drive but a woman answers the door of the hen house.
‘I’ve already told the other policemen,’ she says. ‘I haven’t seen Maria and Lee for days.’
‘They didn’t tell you that they were going away?’
‘No, which is odd, because we get on well. Usually, if they go away, we look after their cat, Puzzle.’
‘Who’s looking after Puzzle now?’
‘I think they’ve taken him with them.’ The woman blushes slightly. She’s youngish, about Harbinder’s age, with short hair and tattooed forearms. ‘I’ve got a key so I let myself in to see if the cat was OK. It looks as if they’ve taken him. The cat basket wasn’t in its usual place.’
This is interesting. If you take the cat with you, things are really looking serious.
‘And you’ve no idea where they’ve gone?’
‘No. I told the others. Lee’s parents live in Kent somewhere but I don’t think they’re close. Maria’s family are all in Poland. I hope they’re OK. They’re such nice people. The kids are lovely too. Michael helps me collect eggs sometimes. I pay him 10p an egg.’
Harbinder and Neil sit in the car, watching the woman, Fliss, feeding the hens.
‘It really looks like Maria’s done a bunk,’ says Neil. ‘She must be guilty.’
‘Or scared,’ says Harbinder.
‘Do you really think that Sally and Nigel are short of money?’ she asks, after a pause.
‘Of course not,’ says Neil. ‘Did you see that Aga? Kelly would love one of those. So would I, even though I can’t cook.’
‘Aga can’t,’ mutters Harbinder. ‘Joan mentioned that someone gambled. Edwin said that it wasn’t Peggy. Maybe it was Sally?’
‘Joan was out of it, poor old dear. Hang on. I’ve got a text.’
Neil fumbles with his phone, scrabbling away with his little paws. It always annoys Harbinder to see him do this. He should use his thumbs like a normal person. She looks out at the row of houses, the dying roses, the rusting cars. Fliss, egg basket in hand, sees her looking and waves.
‘Harbinder,’ says Neil. The tone of his voic
e makes her turn instantly.
‘I’ve got some more CCTV from Millionaires’ Row,’ he says. ‘And look who it shows outside Dex’s house.’
The picture is grainy but unmistakable. Patricia Creeve. With a gun in her hand.
‘Where is Patricia now?’ says Neil.
Harbinder looks at her watch. Twelve o’clock.
‘She’s with my mum,’ she says.
35
Harbinder
Indian Summer
HARBINDER RINGS HOME but gets no answer. Her mother doesn’t have a mobile phone and her father is out watching an Under 10s football match. She calls Kush but he must be busy in the shop. She then rings control and tells them to send an officer round to her home address.
While she does all this, Neil is speeding towards Shoreham. They pass Clare’s house and the old cement factory, they pass the flat, green fields, idling cars, a single-decker bus, Lycra-ed types on racing bikes. The siren is on and everyone gets out of their way.
‘Go faster,’ says Harbinder.
‘Don’t worry,’ says Neil, arms straight at the wheel. ‘We’ll be there in ten minutes.’
But ten minutes is enough time for Patricia to give her mother a fatal injection. Bibi wouldn’t even ask what it was for. She wouldn’t want to be any trouble. She’d probably roll up her sleeve for the needle. Harbinder clenches her fists. If Patricia harms her mother she, Harbinder, will tear her apart. She’d enjoy doing it.
‘Calm down,’ says Neil. ‘You’re making this weird growling noise.’
The roundabout by the bypass is the usual snarled-up nightmare. In the centre of it all, horses graze, entirely oblivious. Neil changes lanes, passes on the inside, floors the accelerator. Harbinder wouldn’t have thought that he was capable of driving like this.
But, once in the town, it’s impossible. Every road seems to be choked with traffic. The high street has been closed for a Harvest Festival fête. Harbinder grinds her teeth and curses churches, fêtes and every human being alive. Neil turns into a side street and finds it blocked by a recycling van.
Harbinder opens the door. ‘I’ll be quicker on foot. Follow me as quickly as you can.’
She runs past the van and through the churchyard, elbowing aside children carrying balloons and toffee apples. Her mum always used to take them to the fête. People whispered about them because of Bibi’s sari and Deepak’s turban, but Bibi had been determined to enjoy every community event she could find. She’d even had a go on the carousel, sitting on one of those grinning painted horses, holding her sari with one hand and waving energetically with the other. Harbinder—God forgive her—had been embarrassed and refused to join her. It was Abid who had sat on the adjoining horse, not caring that his entire class was laughing and pointing at the boy in the top-knot. If her mum survives this Harbinder will go anywhere with her, even to Harry Potter World or the gurdwara.
Finally she’s at the corner of her road, past the pub where she drank red wine with Natalka. There’s a car parked outside the house. Is it Patricia’s? As she lurches across the road, Natalka’s car draws up and Benedict almost catapults out. He’s waving a tiny picture and not making much sense.
‘Patrick. Patricia. It’s her. I tried to ring you but you’re not answering—’
‘I haven’t got time for this, Benedict.’ Harbinder searches in her shoulder bag for her house key but, of course, for the first time, they are not where they should be. Harbinder bangs on the window of the shop.
‘Kush! Let me into the house.’
Her brother emerges with maddening slowness from behind the counter.
‘What’s the matter, sis? The carer’s with her. I saw her go up. Big, tall woman.’
‘The carer’s a psychopath,’ pants Harbinder. ‘Let me in.’
Something in her tone must have conveyed urgency to Kush because he not only opens the door but follows her upstairs too. Benedict tags on behind, still babbling about St Patrick.
‘Mum?’ shouts Harbinder. ‘Mum!’
Silence.
‘Mum!’ Kush yells. Surely her beloved son’s voice will rouse Bibi but there’s only more silence, echoing off the walls.
Harbinder bursts into the sitting room. Her mother is sitting motionless in her chair.
‘Mum!’ Harbinder feels for a pulse and—thank the gods—it’s there. Her mother’s skin is warm too. She opens her eyes.
‘Harbinder. Kushna. What are you doing here?’
‘Where’s Patricia? The woman from the care agency?’
‘She’s in the kitchen, making tea.’
‘Stay with Mum,’ says Harbinder to Kush. She pushes open the kitchen door.
And finds Patricia Creeve backed up against the kitchen counter, while Sultan growls at her from across the room.
* * *
‘I STILL CAN’T believe it,’ says Neil. ‘I thought that Patricia was one of the good guys.’ They are back at the station eating pizza. Patricia Creeve has been charged with the murder of Dex Challoner but Harbinder is confident that she will also admit to killing Peggy Smith and Lance Foster. Probably Weronika Challoner too.
‘She needed the money,’ said Harbinder. ‘It was Patricia who gambled. That’s why she had to move out of her office and run the business from home. Patricia had been taking money from Weronika for years but, when the old lady started to suspect, Patricia killed her. Peggy must have suspected something. Remember, she was the one who was so good at thinking up murders and plots. But she can’t have had any proof. She told Maria that Weronika’s death was suspicious. She said that the clue was in the copy of Thank Heaven Fasting but it wasn’t in the book itself, it was the picture of St Patrick. Patrick. Patricia.’
‘It might have been more helpful just to tell the police,’ says Donna.
‘She wasn’t sure,’ says Harbinder. ‘She didn’t have any proof.’
‘So Patricia was the gunman who threatened Natalka and Benedict at Peggy Smith’s flat?’ says Neil. ‘I thought they were sure it was a man.’
‘Patricia is a tall woman,’ says Harbinder. ‘My brother said so earlier. She must have size eight feet too because there was a footprint outside Dex’s window. We’ll have to get a forensic podiatrist in.’ She’s pleased to have remembered this impressive-sounding job.
‘Maria went to see Dex,’ says Neil. ‘Which is why she was caught on CCTV at his house.’
‘Yes,’ says Harbinder. ‘Peggy’s death—and seeing Dex at the funeral—must have made Maria think about what she’d said that time: that Weronika’s death was somehow suspicious. Maria went to Dex’s house and told him, not realising that Patricia was the person Peggy suspected. Dex rang Patricia immediately. I’m not sure why. Maybe just to ask if he should believe Maria.’
‘His phone was on the sofa next to him,’ says Neil. ‘That was the call he made. Patricia came straight over and shot him.’
‘She was a good shot,’ says Harbinder. ‘She told me so. She said that she always won prizes at the rifle range on Brighton Pier.’
‘So Maria didn’t know it was Patricia?’ says Neil.
‘No,’ says Harbinder. ‘But she knew there was a murderer out there and she got scared.’
Maria has been found. She had taken refuge with her in-laws in Ashford. ‘I was frightened,’ she told the Kent Police. ‘So I ran away. I’m sorry. I thought the killer would come for me next because I knew all of them. Peggy, Weronika and Dex.’ She probably wasn’t wrong, thinks Harbinder.
‘What about Lance Foster?’ says Donna.
‘His mother was friends with Peggy and Weronika,’ says Harbinder. ‘Benedict told me just now. Apparently they called themselves the bay window set because they used to sit by the windows at Seaview Court enjoying the view. Lance mentions them in the acknowledgements in his book. Maybe there’s a link there.’
‘Could Patricia have got up to Aberdeen in time?’ says Donna.
‘It’s possible,’ says Harbinder. ‘You can get from Shor
eham to Aberdeen in a few hours. The woman at security said that nurses often took that flight. She might have been thinking of Patricia. Maybe Patricia travelled up that morning, wearing her old nurse’s uniform. She could have caught the plane to Aberdeen, killed Lance and still have got home by midnight.’
‘It’s very cold-blooded,’ says Neil.
‘I think Patricia was cold-blooded,’ says Harbinder. ‘The care agency was only ever a way of making money. She told me that she was always short of cash. She had a gambling addiction too. That might have been what Joan was trying to tell us.’
‘What about all the rest of it?’ says Donna. ‘The anonymous notes, the men who were spying on her?’
‘The men turned out to be Ukrainian students,’ says Harbinder. ‘And one of them became Dex’s editor. I think Nigel Smith is hoping he’ll publish his book too.’
‘Why is everyone writing a book?’ says Donna. ‘I can’t see the appeal myself.’
‘It passes the time, I suppose,’ says Harbinder. She thinks of Julie saying, ‘It’s a way of escaping.’ She imagines Julie sitting in a Brighton café, the chattering crowds around her, lost in her own sunlit world.
‘You look tired,’ says Donna. ‘You should go home.’
‘I’ll drive you,’ says Neil.
‘My parents are probably still having a party for the dog,’ says Harbinder.
* * *
BUT, WHEN SHE gets home, her mother has gone to bed and there’s only her father and Sultan waiting up for her.
‘Come and sit with me, Heena,’ says Deepak. He’s watching the news. It’s still only ten o’clock.
The Postscript Murders Page 27