by JL Merrow
There was a chorus of Please let us do our job, sir, from the St. John’s mob, but it was Vi Majors who eventually managed to haul him out of the way. “Daddy, you’ve got to leave them to it.”
Daddy? This was Alex Majors? I couldn’t help staring as he stood to one side, Vi’s arms around him like she was still having to physically hold him back. I reckoned she could do it and all, looking at her dad.
I dunno what I’d expected, really. Someone aggressively businesslike, probably. Granted, this wasn’t the best of circs to meet him under, but the word that sprang to mind when I looked at Alex was faded. With his flat grey hair and deeply hooded grey eyes, he looked way too old and tired to be married to Mrs. F-M. His light-grey summer-weight suit was obviously expensive, but it hung on him like he’d lost weight recently. And trust me, he didn’t have a lot of weight to spare. Blokes like Alex seem to have been invented to make spiders feel less conspicuously leggy. Course, maybe he’d taken up marathon running in his spare time. Or the new missus had been giving him a regular workout in the bedroom.
Didn’t look like that was going to be a problem from now on.
Alex’s eyes were glued to his wife’s body as the St. John’s lot kept on trying to bring her back to life, but there was no hope in his expression. Poor sod. Having married a woman around twenty years younger than he was, he couldn’t have expected to outlive her. Vi, on the other hand, looked furious. All I could think was that she was mad at her stepmum for upsetting her dad, which seemed a bit heartless, but there you go.
We all had to clear out when the emergency services turned up. The police were first in, closely followed by the real ambulance lot. They shepherded us over round the back of the tent, by the hedge, which meant I ended up not six feet from Vi and Alex. She shot me a poisonous glare but clearly decided looking after Daddy was more important than tearing me a new one right now.
Then we just had to wait until they were ready to deal with us.
Of course, me being the one to find the body meant I was the number-one attraction for the local plod.
We weren’t by the reptile tent any longer, thank God, so I didn’t have to try to wrestle my thoughts into some kind of order while the scene-of-crime bods did their stuff with the late Mrs. F-M. in the background. The police had commandeered the local tennis clubhouse, which was off to one end of the playing fields, for their on-site interviews, so we were sitting on plastic chairs around the table-football table in the main room. One side of it was all windows, looking onto the tennis courts, now cleared of players. The other walls were covered in notices, tournament tables, and motivational posters, including the one of that girl in the white frock scratching her bum.
“So you arranged with Mrs. Fenchurch-Majors beforehand that she’d hide something in the tent?” The lady copper was young, mixed-race, and aggressively keen. She’d given tennis girl’s poster a disapproving look, unless it was the one right next to it of Roger Federer with his shirt off she didn’t like. Personally, I’d have found that one well motivational if I’d been into tennis.
“Not in the tent, specifically. Just, she was supposed to hide something somewhere.” I swallowed. Not being totally daft, I had a fair idea how it must look to them. “Look, I hardly knew her. She just asked me to do a turn to entertain the crowd, and it was part of the show, her hiding something.”
“You had something of a disagreement with Mrs. Fenchurch-Majors earlier on today, didn’t you, sir?”
You know you’re in trouble when the plod insist on calling you sir in that steely tone of voice. “Well, yeah, but nothing I’d have strangled her over. It was just about that demo she had me doing. Been a bit of a communication failure, hadn’t there?”
“Tell me, Mr. Paretski, what would you consider sufficient grounds for murder?”
You get the drift.
Cherry, being my self-appointed legal representative, had insisted on sitting in, which didn’t endear either of us to the long arm of the law. I made sure I thanked her for it in appropriate terms when they finally let us go home. “Cheers, Sis. Way to make it look like I’ve got something to hide.”
“Oh, don’t be silly. They don’t seriously suspect you. They’re just following procedure.”
“If that’s the case, why’d I need you?”
“Well, excuse me for wanting to give some moral support to my baby brother. Oh, look, there’s Alex over there, poor man. We must go and offer our condolences.”
“Uh, not so sure about that . . .” I started, seeing as Alex Majors was with his daughter, who still looked ready to lay into someone given the slightest excuse. I’d already given her plenty, so I didn’t rate my chances of coming out alive.
“For heaven’s sake, Tom. He’s just lost his wife. Come on.” She slung her arm in mine and practically frog-marched me over with no consideration for my dodgy hip.
Not that it was actually hurting at the time, as it tends to do okay in warm weather, but it’s the principle of the thing.
The bishop was over with Alex and Vi, so a less charitable brother might have concluded this was more about gaining brownie points with the bish than consoling Alex for his loss. He didn’t even glance our way as we approached. The bereaved husband himself was looking greyer than ever, although fair dues, I’d probably have looked pretty grey if the bish had been getting physical with me like that. Dear old Toby was holding Alex’s hand and patting it gently, murmuring what were presumably words of spiritual comfort.
“Alexander, Violet,” Cherry began. “I can’t begin to tell you—”
Vi cut her straight off, while giving me a look like I’d just crawled out of her drains dragging half the contents with me. “The police asked me if I’d noticed any suspicious characters hanging around Amelia lately. I made sure I told them all about the creep sneaking about in my bloody bedroom.”
Great. When your name’s Tom already, the last thing you need is to get a rep for peeping into ladies’ bedrooms.
“Oi, she asked me to do that!” I glanced around nervously. The plod had already decided I was a person of interest, without her making me sound like some weirdo stalker.
“Tom!” Cherry was clearly wishing she’d offloaded me somewhere before coming over.
Alex finally looked up. “What? You were in my daughter’s bedroom?”
“Look, it was your wife, yeah? She wanted me to find, um, something she’d lost.” On the subject of diamond necklaces I decided it was probably least said, soonest mended.
Alex frowned. “But what were you doing in Vi’s bedroom?”
Cherry made a high-pitched, exasperated sound. “Oh, for heaven’s sake, Violet, Tom’s as gay as a maypole. It wasn’t as if he had any nefarious intent.”
Vi gave me a considering look, and I expected her to ask what I’d been hunting for, but she didn’t. “You’re the psychic, aren’t you? So go on, who did it? Who killed her?”
“Sorry, love. Not that sort of psychic,” I said, just as Alex came out with a weak-sounding “Violet, please.”
“Well, we need to know, don’t we?” Vi said bluntly. “Or the wrong person might get blamed.” She had a fair point—my mate Dave, or DI Southgate as he is generally known, had as good as told me one time they always reckon there’s a ninety percent chance it’s the spouse/significant other what done it.
Cherry frowned. “And so that there’s justice for poor Amelia,” she said pointedly.
“Oh. Yes, that too.”
We all shuffled our feet and tried to ignore the obvious insincerity there.
The bish clearly decided it was time for him to put his ecclesiastical oar in. “Oh, I think murder will out. And rest assured, even should the guilty party escape judgement in this world, they will face it in the next.” Maybe it was just me, but there seemed to be a nasty little edge to his smile.
“Quite right, Toby,” Cherry said firmly. “Now, as I was saying, Alexander, of course I’m most dreadfully sorry for your loss. If there’s anything I can do—
”
“What could you do?” Vi asked rudely. “And anyway, you didn’t even like her.”
“Violet!”
“Well, it’s true, Daddy. Nobody liked her except you. And Toby and Uncle Arlo, I suppose. And Lance, maybe, but that’s only because he had to.” The sulky look on Vi’s face turned stricken, probably ’cos her dad looked on the verge of collapse.
“Amelia”—Alex’s voice broke on the name—“was a dear, dear soul and had a great many friends. I realise you and she have had a difficult relationship, but I hoped—” He choked up completely and couldn’t finish.
Cherry looked like she felt she ought to give him a hug but was hoping somebody else would get in first. Luckily for me, after her maypole comment, I was pretty sure he wouldn’t welcome it if I volunteered.
The bish squeezed Vi’s bare shoulder, which, from her pissed-off expression, she found as creepy as it looked. “One should never speak ill of the dead, my dear. They may be beyond our censure, but the good Lord sees and hears all.”
Vi shook him off with a hint of a shudder. “Come on, Daddy, let’s get you home. If the police need to ask you any more questions, they can bloody well come and find us.” She put an arm around her dad and led him off without so much as a fare-thee-well to any of us, her high heels aerating the playing fields with every step.
“Oh dear,” Cherry said. “Death does have a terrible effect on people, doesn’t it?”
Me and the bish just looked at her.
Our other halves, who’d been politely told to piss off earlier by the plod, turned up then, thank God. Mine and Cherry’s, I mean, not the bishop’s. I amused myself for a mo trying to imagine what sort of person would marry (a) a bishop in general and (b) this bishop in particular, then remembered the answer to (a) would be Cherry, given half a chance, and (b) this one was single.
Then I started wondering how he’d managed that if blokes in purple were such a catch in God-bothering circles. What, to be blunt, was wrong with him? I mean, personally I could think of plenty, but the sort of stuff I objected to was probably an enticement rather than a deal breaker for a lot of the women he came in contact with.
Greg slapped me on the shoulder. “I trust you’ve been ruled out of enquiries?” he said with a chuckle.
“Er, yeah, I think so.” I’d have thought the laughter was a bit inappropriate in the circs.
Apparently I was in a minority, seeing as the bish joined in with the lols. “I do hope so, Gregory. I’m not at all sure I could in good conscience officiate at your wedding to the sister of a convicted murderer. After all, I might end up sitting near him at the wedding breakfast, and I hear there have already been some poisonings in the family.”
I could feel Sis fuming beside me. Greg just beamed.
Phil coughed. “Don’t worry. I’m sure the Lord will protect you.” It was just on the inoffensive side of sarcastic. Just. “Are we getting out of here, Tom?”
“You must be the, ah, partner,” the bish interrupted before I could say God, yes please. He thrust out a hand, which Phil inspected with narrowed eyes before giving it a short, sharp shake. “So interesting to meet you.”
“Fiancé,” Phil corrected, stony-faced. “And yeah, likewise. Come on, Tom.”
“Sis? I’ll call you, yeah?” I threw over my shoulder as we legged it.
“Jesus, I thought we’d never get away from there,” Phil muttered as he put the Golf into gear. It’d been parked in the sun and was warm enough inside that if Cherry’s stall had run out of cakes, she could have baked a few more in there no trouble. If, you know, the whole dead-body thing hadn’t put a pretty final dampener on sales. Luckily, the air-con was already kicking in. I just wished it had some kind of accessory to help me chill inside as well as out.
“Me too. Where’s Dave Southgate when you need him? At least when he’s on the case I’m not suspect number one just ’cos of tripping over the body.”
“You should give him a ring. Get him to put in a word for you.” Phil swung out onto the main road, which was a relief. There’s something about going faster that makes you feel cooler, even though in a car with air-con, it shouldn’t really make a difference.
“Way ahead of you. It’s about time I took him out for a pint, before he gets stuck in every night changing nappies.” Dave and his wife had a nipper due any day now.
“Tonight?”
“Nah. Too knackered. All I wanna do is veg out in front of the telly with a takeaway.” I paused. “You in?”
Phil sent me a look I’d class as fond but exasperated. “Course I’m bloody in. Not gonna leave you on your own tonight, am I?”
“Oi, I can cope. It’s not like it’s the first time I’ve found a body. No need to pass the smelling salts, ta very much.”
Phil glanced my way again. There was more of the exasperated and possibly less of the fond this time. “Course you can cope on your own. You just don’t bloody well have to.”
“Why don’t you move in?” I blurted out.
This time, he didn’t look at me. Course, he was driving. He probably wanted to keep his eyes on the road. “You want—” He broke off and sighed. “I don’t think that’s a discussion we should be having right now.”
“No. Course not.” I looked out the window at fields starting to take on the barren look of autumn now the harvest had been gathered in, despite the bright sunshine and the heat of the day that could fool you into thinking it was still only August. But the nights were drawing in already, and it was only a month until the clocks would go back. I shivered, and Phil reached over to turn the air-con down a bit.
“What do you wanna eat tonight?” I roused myself to ask.
“Don’t mind. Indian, if you’re up for that. Nothing too adventurous.”
“Yeah, sounds good. Chicken tikka, maybe some of that naan with the meat in it?”
Phil nodded.
Sometimes you just want a bit of same old, same old. Comfort food.
I called Dave as soon as we got back to mine.
Well, all right, as soon as we’d got back to mine and called the takeaway. It’s a matter of priorities, innit?
It was a while before he picked up, which I took to mean he wasn’t working today. “Dave? It’s Tom. Fancy a pint tomorrow night?”
“Do I ever. Usual place?” That was the White Hart down Holywell Hill, your actual ancient Tudor coaching inn with oak-panelled walls, low beams in the ceiling that didn’t tend to bother yours truly overmuch, and a skeleton in every closet, courtesy of the management.
“Fine by me.” I paused. “Listen, I oughtta warn you, I sort of gave your name out as a character reference today.”
Dave sighed. “Bleedin’ hell, don’t tell me. You’ve gone and dug up another body, haven’t you? Jesus, I can’t leave you alone for five minutes.”
“Oi, there haven’t been that many. And some of ’em you put me onto in the first place. But, uh, yeah. Over in St. Leonards. Wasn’t my fault.”
“I should bloody well hope not. Come on, spill. You were just walking down the road when this body fell out the back of a lorry, honest, guv?”
“Walking into a reptile tent, and no lorry, but yeah.” I filled him in on the Harvest Fayre events but decided against giving him the background on the mother/daughter relationship. Didn’t want to bias him or anything, and it wasn’t like I’d mentioned it to the St. Leonards mob either.
Look, I felt a bit uncomfortable about it, yeah, but it wasn’t like they’d asked me or anything, was it? They’d just wanted to know how I knew the victim, and I’d told them the truth: she’d got me in to do a job, through my sister, and it’d involved a bit of a hunt around the place. Wasn’t my fault if they assumed it was a plumbing job, was it?
I mean, it wasn’t like it was actually relevant. I hadn’t even found anything, had I?
If I had made a point of telling the police about dear departed Amelia calling me in to search Vi’s bedroom, it’d look like I was pretty much accusing Vi of kil
ling her stepmum. Which, yeah, I didn’t wanna do ’cos (a) I felt bad enough about sneaking into her bedroom and (b) if I ended up sending ’em on a wild-goose chase after Vi, the real murderer could get off scot-free.
Course, now it occurred to me they hadn’t said anything to me about Vi grassing me up. So, say, me making sure I’d explained why I’d been in her room might have been seen as me having something to hide.
Sod it.
Dave listened, grunting at appropriate moments and asking the odd question, not all of which I could answer. “Right,” he said in the end. “Scratch tomorrow evening. Make it Monday night, give me a bit more time to find out what’s what with your latest murder.”
“Oi, you’re making me sound like a serial killer. And, hang on a mo, since when’s policing been a nine-to-five, Monday-to-Friday gig?”
“The missus is dragging me out tomorrow. To Mothercare. Got to buy a pram, ’cept it’s not called a pram these days, oh no. It’s a bleedin’ travel system and takes a degree in engineering to put together every time you want to nip down the shops. God knows where she’s going to keep the bloody thing, what with all the changing tables, baby bouncers, and Moses bloody baskets she’s filled the place up with. We never had half this stuff with the first lot. I tell you, soon as she drops that sprog, I’ll be getting my marching orders ’cos the house ain’t big enough for both of us.”
“Ah, you love it really.” I wasn’t just saying it. There was a definite hint of fond fatherly pride buried in that little rant. “Anyhow, Jen’s not gonna kick you out. Who’d change all the dirty nappies and get up in the night when it screams the place down? While we’re on, me and Phil want to get you something for the little nipper—got any ideas?”
We’d already got the gag gift, mind. Gary found it online for us: a onesie with the slogan Proof My Daddy’s Not Gay. Seeing as the same site also sold an identical onesie printed with I Love My Gay Daddy, I wasn’t so sure about the logic, but I reckoned Dave would appreciate it.