The Festival Murders

by Mark McCrum

  ‘Why didn’t you say anything about this earlier?’ he asked.

  ‘I did. To the police. My attempts to get involved with you were rather rebuffed, weren’t they?’

  Silly woman. Taking umbrage because Priya had told her to shut up, five minutes after she’d found her boyfriend murdered. ‘But you never mentioned this when we chatted in the Green Room,’ he said.

  ‘You never asked.’

  They sat there considering the case for a while longer. Having finished their wine, they succumbed to digestifs: a sambucca for Virginia and a grappa for him. The novelist pursed her lips to blow out the flickering purple flame. ‘One other little thing you might like to consider,’ she said, with a twinkle in her eye, ‘is that Dan and Scarlett were once an item.’

  ‘You’re not serious.’

  ‘I’m afraid I am.’

  ‘As part of the famous open marriage?’

  ‘No, it was before all that. I don’t think Bryce ever knew about it, even though the affair nearly broke him and Scarlett up.’

  ‘So what happened?’

  ‘In the end, heaven only knows. It fizzled out. Maybe Dan lost interest. You have to remember, when his first novel came out, he went from being a nobody to suddenly very successful.’

  ‘Remind me what that was.’

  ‘Dispatches from the E Zone. It was a succès fou, as they say.’

  They talked on, or rather Francis listened on, intrigued by quite how much Virginia knew about Bryce and Scarlett’s lives. Finally, two digestifs each down the line, they were alone in the restaurant. Their bills were paid and up by the door to the kitchen the waitress was wiping down the last of the tables.

  ‘I do feel I can trust you,’ Virginia said. She wasn’t quite slurring her words, but she was sucking her tongue in a decidedly tipsy fashion.

  ‘Thank you,’ Francis replied.

  ‘Can’t think why. But on condition you keep this totally to yourself, I’ll let you into a secret about Peabody and me.’

  Francis guessed what it was before she said it.

  ‘Years ago, when we were together, he got me’ – her voice dropped to a whisper – ‘up the duff.’

  ‘When you were students?’

  ‘Undergraduates, please. Yes, that’s why I messed up my finals so badly.’ Virginia looked round to make sure the waitress wasn’t anywhere near, then mouthed: ‘I … had to have … the abortion … a week before … my first exam.’

  ‘Was that your choice?’ Francis kept his voice low too.

  ‘Obviously, at one level. But no, you’re right, it wasn’t. If Bryce had wanted it I’d have had that baby like a shot. I was completely mad about him at that stage. But he didn’t, did he? He’d already moved on, the little shit. And I wasn’t prepared to be a single parent at twenty-one. So that was the end of that.’

  There was a long pause. Francis took a throat-burning slug of his grappa. ‘Did you regret it?’ he asked.

  Her sigh was deep and powerful. ‘At the time I had no idea what I was doing. Abortion – hah! That’s what you did. Don’t tell your parents, bit naughty, but a woman’s right to control her own body, all very fashionable then, bing bang, into the clinic and away you went. There was always going to be another chance. But life isn’t like that, is it? It races on and suddenly it’s all too late. I often think about that child now. He’d have been in his thirties. University well behind him, established in his career. I wonder what he’d have been. A writer, like his mother, a critical genius like his father, or nothing much at all, like so many of the children of the unusually talented.’ Virginia pressed her lips together in a grimace and her eyes glistened. ‘It’s crazy isn’t it, the things we let ourselves do when we’re young.’

  Francis held out a hand and covered hers. ‘I’m sorry,’ he said.

  ‘Please don’t offer me sympathy,’ she said, ‘or I really shall break down and I’m sure you wouldn’t want that. Look, I’m a grown-up. There are worse tragedies in this world than the mistake of a silly lovestruck girl.’ She looked up and wiped her eyes with the corner of her napkin. ‘Come on, I’m sure this pretty little thing wants to get off home.’

  They walked to the White Hart side by side. Back in his room there was a light on by the bed. Priya was fast asleep on the sofa, still fully dressed, snoring quietly. Francis’s note lay on the desk by the window, untouched. Unnoticed?

  He took a blanket from the cupboard and spread it carefully over her. He stood for a few moments, watching her, her chest rising and falling as she slept. She was a beautiful young woman and he could easily understand how Bryce had thrown his life over for her. He tiptoed into the bathroom and flossed and cleaned his teeth as quietly as he could. Then he turned the room key in the lock, leaving it there with its plastic tag dangling, in case Priya woke before him and wanted to get out. He slid between the sheets of the big double bed and clicked off the light. Am I going to be too tired and tipsy to sleep, he wondered, regretting the grappas already; but even as the thought recurred, oblivion swept over him in a wave.

  MONDAY 21ST JULY

  TWENTY-ONE

  Francis woke early, with a dry mouth and a stinging headache. It was barely light, though outside the birds were serenading the little town with another noisy dawn chorus. It had rained in the night, and heavily, because he could hear drops still falling from the leaves of trees in the garden outside. He thought about boiling a kettle to make tea. But Priya was still asleep on the sofa, hands clasped tightly in her lap. It wasn’t fair even to risk waking her. So he took a sip of water from the glass by the bed, then lay still, staring up at the ceiling, doing stretching exercises with his toes, thoughts about the case racing around his brain.

  His main problem was this. If the two deaths were related – and surely they had to be? – Grace’s ‘accident’ had drastically narrowed the field of suspects. Conal, for example, had to be struck off; at the critical time Francis had seen him with his own eyes out at the Black Bull. Unless his appearance there was some kind of elaborate alibi; but then how could he have known that Francis was going to visit that pub? He’d only dropped in on a whim. Then Virginia: even if her confessions of last night had given her more of a motive, the simple fact was that she’d been doing her event from 3 to 4 p.m. Was it possible that she’d hung around the Green Room afterwards to create an alibi before racing out to Wyveridge to do away with Grace? Hardly. Scarlett, too, was surely out of the frame. Not only had Francis been with her at the time of the second death, it wasn’t clear that she even knew of Grace’s existence. Which left three candidates from his original list: Dan Dickson, who had always seemed unlikely (even if the fight on the bridge offered an explanation for that bruise on Bryce’s cheek); Priya, first on the scene, but despite that traditional indicator of guilt, surely another long shot, with a watertight alibi and no obvious motive (though that missing chocolate still bothered him); and finally (and most likely?) Anna Copeland, with or without the assistance of four-fingered Marv. But however badly he’d treated her, Bryce’s behaviour hardly justified murder, did it? Even if she was completely broke and he’d left her money in his will. No, almost certainly, in a non-Braithwaite world, the real-life killer was someone else entirely. With some proper motive that had nothing to do with literary rivalry or being scorned in love.

  Outside, down the street, he could hear the electric hum of a milk float, the clink of bottles being left on a doorstep. What on earth was he doing, he wondered. Curiosity had got him started on this quest, now he felt emotionally involved. He had barely known Grace, talked to her for what, ten minutes at the outside. But the thought of that bright young spirit snuffed out for no reason – or rather, for some all too compelling reason – had stirred him up horribly.

  He knew why. Grace had reminded him, from the first moment he’d spoken to her, of his wife Kate. Not only did she have the same boyish figure, she had her attitude too: questioning, enthusiastic, always up for something different. Grace was Home Counties to Kate
’s Devon, but it was the same essential personality.

  Six years after she and Francis had got married, they had been on holiday in Egypt when they had decided that now was the time to start trying for a family. Neither of them were earning much, but, as the Peruvians say, and Kate liked to repeat, ‘every child brings a loaf with them’. It had been an intensely romantic time, touring Cairo, seeing the spooky mummies in the museum, laughing about the Pyramids being in a suburb of the city, being taken round on camels by a guide who refused to drink water in the heat of the day (it being Ramadan) but then strained every sinew to sell them overpriced perfumes back in his shop. From there they had headed on up the Nile, with Kate so enthusiastic about the people and the country she had been talking about Egyptian names for the baby they probably hadn’t even conceived yet. At the end of their first week they had decided at the last moment to go for a three-day cruise on a felucca. It was a dodgy-looking craft and the youthful, bearded captain didn’t exactly inspire confidence, but hey, wasn’t that all part of the adventure?

  ‘Don’t be so uptight!’ Kate had said to him, and Francis had gone against all his instincts and acquiesced. They were abroad, she was right, he should stop being so English and careful about everything. On their second night on the river, a freak storm had swept in – terrifying lightning zig-zagging across the black sky, a tree-bending desert wind bringing with it sand that stung your cheeks. It had been thrilling for an hour; then the boat had flipped over in a second and they had found themselves trapped underwater in their cabin. They had fought like wild animals to get out, but it had proved impossible to shift the door. Francis remembered all too vividly the choking panic as his lungs filled with water, then the strange sense of acceptance that came over him once he realised there was nothing more he could do. In that moment he thought they would die together and he squeezed his wife’s hand tight as it went limp in his. When he came to, strange men were yelling at him. There was bright torchlight in his eyes. He was being dragged by his arms through the shallows to the shore. Choking, vomiting up river water on the reeds, he had screamed for Kate. But she hadn’t made it. He knelt beside her pale, naked body on the stony mud, weeping incoherently.

  That had been twenty years ago. There had been several attempts to replace her, but none had worked out. Now Francis was more or less reconciled to being on his own. He simply wasn’t prepared to compromise with any relationship that didn’t give him what he’d had with Kate; a mutual understanding that felt so easy, yet so complete.

  When Francis woke again the sun was shining on his face. It was nine forty. Damn! He had missed the hotel breakfast and now he’d have to make do with coffee shop pastries. Priya had woken and gone; though her electric toothbrush was still in the bathroom and her lipsticks were lined up in a row on the glass shelf, so she hadn’t left town.

  Francis stood for a couple of minutes under the puny shower, trying unsuccessfully to establish a mean temperature. Towelled dry, standing in the soothing warmth of an oblong beam of sunlight, he pulled on a khaki T-shirt and matching shorts.

  Outside it was a beautiful day. The sky was that lovely blue of late July, the soft-edged clouds tinged with an ochre that spoke already of the end of summer. There was the lightest breeze, tickling the hair on Francis’s bare arms and legs. Even at ten in the morning, the festival crowds thronged the narrow pavements, ambling between talks in a fine variety of summer gear – everything from fluorescent crop tops to grey wind jackets and back again. One man was dressed as a fairy, complete with pink ballet shoes and wings; if his outfit was a joke, he wasn’t smiling, as he paced along alone, intently studying his programme.

  Pausing at the newsagent’s Francis saw that Mold was now headline news. He bought a Times and stepped into The Coffee Cup two doors along, scanning the front page as he waited in line for a latte.

  MYSTERIOUS DEATHS AT LITERARY FESTIVAL

  Detectives investigating the deaths of two journalists at the annual Mold-on-Wold literary festival are now treating both as suspicious. Bryce Peabody, 54, was found dead in his room at the White Hart Hotel early on Sunday morning. He was the Literary Editor of the Sentinel and a well-respected reviewer and commentator on literary affairs. Later yesterday, the body of Grace Pritchard, 24, a junior reporter on the same newspaper …

  Having got his coffee, Francis found a stool by the window and read on. Further down the piece Bryce was described as ‘a literary hatchet man’ and ‘a legend in the world of books’. The picture editors, meanwhile, had done a number on Grace. They had clearly found an old photoshoot where she had been modelling various eye-catching outfits. The sexy pics gave the story the glamorous edge it needed. Seasoned, disreputable-looking writer and bright-eyed totty in a catsuit, what more could you want? Francis wasn’t surprised, looking round the café, to see that the tabloids had gone big on it too. The same pictures, Grace’s full lips in a pout that had presumably been ironic, were everywhere.

  He sat, soaking up the criss-crossing conversations around him. Amid the discussion of the talks people had been to or were about to go to, one subject predominated: ‘got to be a link’ … ‘maybe she will have to cancel’ … ‘all kinds of drugs out there’ … ‘but you’d have to be seriously off your face to jump’ …

  He looked up from his paper to see, at the front of the queue, Anna the ghostwriter, a Daily Mail tucked under her arm. She smiled and gave him a wave; then, latte glass in hand, came over.

  ‘Mind if I join you?’

  ‘Out on your own?’

  ‘Marv’s off on his training run. Likes to do ten miles before breakfast. And about five thousand sit-ups and squat jumps. Not to mention the hundred one-armed press-ups.’

  ‘I’m impressed.’

  ‘You should be. He likes to make the most of what he’s got left.’ She waved her Mail at him. MURDER, THEY WROTE was the three-quarter page headline. ‘So what d’you make of all this?’

  ‘Hadn’t you heard?’ Francis asked. ‘About Grace?’

  ‘Not until I saw this, no. Marv and I had an early night last night. We’ve got our talk later.’ She was shaking her head solemnly at the paper. ‘It’s appalling. I can’t quite believe it.’

  ‘Actually, I was on the point of deciding yesterday that Bryce had had a heart attack –’

  ‘You knew about this yesterday?’

  ‘I went out there. Saw her body … spreadeagled on the gravel.’

  ‘How awful.’

  ‘It was.’ The image of that broken rag-doll came back to him forcefully. He gritted his teeth, fighting back a sudden wave of emotion.

  ‘So what d’you think?’ she asked. ‘That this is related … somehow … to Bryce?’

  ‘Has to be. Doesn’t it? Why else would someone want to do away with a blameless young woman like that?’

  ‘Unless she did fall. Or had a freakout and jumped or something. It is a pretty druggy scene out there.’

  ‘So everyone keeps telling me,’ said Francis. ‘But from what I can gather, Grace wasn’t into that side of things at all. She was just a smart young cookie who was staying out at Wyveridge because it was fun and, presumably, a hub of the kind of gossip she was after.’

  ‘So what … you think she found out something about what had happened to Bryce?’

  ‘She was certainly out and about, asking questions.’

  ‘As were you.’

  ‘Not as successfully as her, obviously.’

  ‘You don’t feel in any danger yourself?’

  ‘I’m certainly watching my back. But then I haven’t found anything out yet, have I?’

  ‘Haven’t you? They don’t know that, do they?’

  ‘I suppose not,’ he said. They, he thought, that was an interesting usage.

  ‘You’ve let me off the hook, I trust.’

  Francis acted surprised. ‘What d’you mean?’

  ‘Oh come on! I’m sure you weren’t quizzing me yesterday out of idle curiosity. That was why Marv was so pissed off. He th
ought you were trying to pin something on us. He might have helped me out or something … bit of military expertise?’

  Francis laughed, he hoped convincingly. ‘Oh dear. I suppose if you’ve been taught how to kill people for real it would make you a bit sensitive about stuff like that.’

  ‘It’s one of his big things. That the training he’s received means he’d be far more disciplined than most if he ever faced a crisis in Civvy Street. It’s like karate: you school your body to be a weapon, but simultaneously learn how to control your aggression.’

  ‘I understand.’

  ‘Do you?’ she said, with a sharp look in her eye. ‘Marv suffers from PTSD, so he has real problems in that area.’

  Francis let the pause hang in the air, as they sipped at their matching lattes. ‘So you’ve been helping him with a book about his time in Afghanistan?’ he asked.

  ‘And Iraq, yes. Among other places. To Helmand and Back it’s called. We’re promoting it together. The Marine and the ghostwriter. It was Marv’s initiative. He wanted to be totally open about how it came into being. Very keen on giving me credit. It’s unusual.’

  ‘And the publishers are happy with that?’

  ‘Not initially they weren’t. They thought it would confuse the picture. Readers don’t want to know about the process, they want an image, a brand they can identify with. But when we presented it to them as a publicity angle, us going out together and all that, they went for it. Black warrior and white ghost. It seems to be working well.’

  ‘I hope you sold the book for a shedload.’

  ‘More like a rabbit hutch. It’s a tough time at the moment.’

  She smiled. She was a good-looking woman, Francis thought, with a lovely aura: thoughtful, obliging, though in some way damaged (there was something about her eyes).

  ‘Presumably,’ he said, ‘you must have been pretty angry with Bryce when he told you that he wanted to be with Priya?’

  There was silence. Anna held his gaze. For a moment he thought he’d pushed it too far.