‘I’ve just had a rather wonderful idea,’ says Elizabeth. ‘I wonder if you’d like to hear it before you head off?’
‘Don’t talk me out of this, Elizabeth. Lambert has had this coming a long time.’ Stephen is checking through drawers. ‘Damn and blast, where are my keys?’
Stephen has never been a vengeful man or an angry man. Never been ruled by his pride. Never had those traits you see in weak men. Never felt the need to prove himself at the expense of others.
‘I wouldn’t talk you out of anything,’ says Elizabeth. ‘I agree with you entirely. Anyone who insults your book insults you. And anyone who insults you, insults me.’
‘Thank you, darling,’ says Stephen.
‘It’s just I was thinking you might take Bogdan with you? He could drive you up.’
Stephen considers this for a moment, then nods. ‘He’d scare the living daylights out of Lambert, wouldn’t he?’
Elizabeth takes out her phone. ‘I’ll ring him, dear.’
It is nearly 2.30 in the morning, but Bogdan answers on the first ring.
‘Hello, Elizabeth.’
‘Hello, Bogdan, Stephen wanted to ask you a favour.’
‘OK, hand me over,’ says Bogdan. Elizabeth would love to know why Bogdan is wide awake at 2.30 in the morning. He is infuriatingly opaque. She hadn’t even heard any background noises, despite her well-trained ear.
‘Bogdan? Is this you?’ says Stephen.
‘Yes, Stephen. What can I do?’ says Bogdan.
‘There’s a fella. He’s in Kensington, or Camden, and we need to duff him up.’
‘OK, now?’
‘Soon as you can get here.’
‘OK, I be maybe an hour. Get some rest before, OK? Put me back to Elizabeth.’
Stephen hands the phone back to Elizabeth.
‘Thank you, Bogdan,’ says Elizabeth. ‘You are a good friend.’
‘You are, too,’ says Bogdan. ‘I hope you get him back to sleep.’
‘Thank you, darling. What are you up to?’
‘Bits and bobs,’ says Bogdan.
‘What’s that I can hear in the background?’ she asks.
‘I don’t think you can hear anything,’ says Bogdan.
Elizabeth rolls her eyes. ‘Night, night, Bogdan.’
Elizabeth leads Stephen back to bed, and he is already much calmer. Bogdan does that to people. She can’t persuade Stephen to undress, but she persuades him to get under the covers beside her.
‘You found out who shot your friends yet?’ he asks.
Elizabeth seizes on the change of subject. ‘Not yet, but I will.’ She knows she already has the clue. But what is it? Where is it?
‘Of course you will,’ says Stephen. ‘You always get your man.’
Elizabeth smiles, and kisses her husband on the cheek. ‘I certainly got you, didn’t I?’
‘No, no, I got you, darling,’ says Stephen. ‘Had it planned from the moment I saw you.’
They had met when Stephen had handed her a dropped glove, outside a bookshop, in an act of tactical chivalry. Elizabeth has never told him that, actually, she had spotted him from a distance earlier that day, sitting on a bench, looking like quite the most beautiful man she had ever seen. As she walked past the bench she had dropped the glove on purpose. He had picked it up, as she knew he would. The dropped glove, a romantic cliché no man could resist. So, yes, Elizabeth always got her man, even when they didn’t know it. You should always have a plan.
‘He left me a note,’ says Elizabeth. ‘Telling me where to find the diamonds. Joyce and I followed the trail, and it just led to another note, telling me I knew where the diamonds were if only I were to think about it.’
‘Telling you to pull your finger out?’
‘That’s the long and short of it.’
‘How did you find the first note?’
‘We were by a tree, up in the woods, and he talked about dead-letter drops.’
‘Bit obvious for you,’ says Stephen.
Elizabeth laughs. ‘In retrospect.’
‘He say anything else? Anything in the note?’
‘Shall I get it?’ says Elizabeth. ‘We can look through it together?’
‘Yes, let’s, what fun. Shall I put the kettle on?’
‘No, you stay where you are, darling. Perhaps slip your shoes and jacket off though, make yourself comfortable.’
‘Right you are,’ says Stephen.
Elizabeth swings her legs out of bed and walks over to her desk. Stephen’s shoes fly across the room as she retrieves the photocopy of the letter and gets back into bed. She smiles at her husband, still wearing his tie.
They read through the letter together, Stephen making the occasional comment of ‘Northumbria’, ‘remember that weekend in Rye’, ‘mafia, of all things’ and ‘my love always? Well, you lost out there, Chief.’
Perhaps the clue is hidden in plain sight, Elizabeth thinks. There was a very simple technique she and Douglas would use for fun. Spelling out a message with the first letter of successive sentences. They would write huge sweeping love letters to each other, where the initial letters would spell out ‘DON’T FORGET WE NEED EGGS AND TOILET ROLL’.
Would Douglas try so simple a trick here? For old times’ sake? Surely not?
‘I’d say they are at the cottage in Rye, darling,’ says Stephen. ‘Wouldn’t you? Funny to mention it otherwise?’
They are not at the cottage in Rye. It was the first thing Elizabeth checked. It was bulldozed in 1995 to make way for a bypass. Elizabeth picks up the letter again, and looks to see if Douglas has left her a message in the first letter of each sentence. She scans the opening paragraphs.
Never doubted you for a moment, you clever thing. I knew you’d find the letter.
Cards on the table, I should probably apologize for stealing the diamonds, and starting this whole parade. Everyone has their price, and it turns out that mine is twenty million pounds. Twenty million, darling, just sitting there, and me a dinosaur nearing retirement? Resistance was futile. You understand, don’t you?
Dinosaur that I am, I still have a few tricks left in me. Elderly as I am, I still have a few years left in me too. A few years I intend not to waste. Retirement is not for me.
Elizabeth smiles. You win that one, Douglas. Sometimes, if she thought really hard, she could remember why she’d married him.
‘Darling,’ says Stephen. ‘Do you remember Julian Lambert, he just popped into my head.’
‘Never heard of him,’ says Elizabeth.
‘I might put in a lunch with him. He’s just had the most awful divorce. Be nice to check he’s all right.’
Oh, stay with me, Stephen, thinks Elizabeth. Stay with me, stay with me, stay with me.
46
Joyce
I am typing quietly because I have someone in the spare room.
The spare room is always made up, in case Joanna comes to stay unexpectedly. Which happens sometimes, if not often. Since her company took over the development on top of the hill she has popped down a few times. She took me up to the site last time, and I had to wear a hard hat. I put it on and knocked on Elizabeth’s door so she could have a good laugh at me, but she wasn’t in, so I knocked on Ron’s door and fortunately he was there. Joanna took a picture of me with Ron. I’m wearing my hard hat, and he’s pointing at it. It’s on Facebook somewhere if you’d like to see it. I should put it on Instagram!
The pillow in the spare room is one that Joanna bought me for Christmas, because she said my pillows were too thin. She actually said that one pillow was too thin, but two pillows were too thick, as if that had been my plan all along. As if I had gone to British Home Stores and sorted through pillows until I found the perfect ones to annoy my daughter. There is also a White Company candle in there that she bought me for Mother’s Day. If I fill the spare room full of things she bought me then she can’t complain. That’s the theory at least, but she’ll always find something.
Last time she
was down she told me off for having the slats of my venetian blinds angled upwards instead of downwards. That was the straw that broke the camel’s hump for me. I said to her, I’d wanted to say it for ages, that I felt I could never get anything quite right, and she said well she felt the same, and I said that’s nonsense, and asked her what she meant, and she said, well Mum, I’m always too fat or too thin, or with the wrong man, or just split up with the right man, or I should wear my hair up or down or I work too hard or I have too many holidays, or I shouldn’t have painted my kitchen that colour. That actually struck a nerve, I can be a bit like that, but I decided to dig in, so I stood my ground and said Joanna, that’s because I care, that’s because I love you, and she said so you show me you love me by telling me I’m too fat? And I said well I know you’re happier when you’re not overweight, and so I just gently tell you, and she said, perhaps she was well aware of when she was overweight, and perhaps her mum pointing out the obvious made her unhappy? Which was also true, so I said well I don’t see you often enough, so I have to say everything all at once, and she said well is that what this is all about? That I don’t see you often enough? And by that stage we were both in an argument we had no way out of, and so I told her that I loved her unconditionally, and she said well of course I loved her unconditionally, I was culturally hard-wired to love her unconditionally, but that sometimes she wished that I actually liked her. And I said darling I do like you, you don’t like me, my life is too small for you, I remind you of the things you’ve had to change to be a success, and she said, oh so I’m a fraud, is that it? And I said not at all, I was very proud of her, and she looked at me and said she was very proud of me too, and I asked what for, and she said I was kind and wise and brave, and I said she was clever and beautiful and had achieved things I would never be capable of, and we both started crying, and then we hugged and I told her I loved her and she told me she loved me. We wiped our eyes and dusted ourselves down, and then she pulled the cord on the venetian blinds so the slats angled downwards and went and made me a cup of tea.
I am glad I had a daughter instead of a son, though. At least I see her.
So we met Chris’s girlfriend this evening. She is Donna’s mum, if you can believe that? Anyway, she’s lovely, as you might expect, and a teacher, so she’s on half-term. I have high hopes, but then I’m a romantic, and I always have high hopes. It’s much more fun that way.
We were all chatting about Douglas and Poppy’s deaths. Donna agrees with Elizabeth. Are we absolutely sure the body was really Douglas? I mean, I was there, and I saw him, and I would swear it was, but it is an interesting question. Unfortunately, it was a question that will have to wait for another day, as at that moment my door buzzer went, and it was Poppy’s mum, Siobhan.
She had been in Godalming – ‘snap’, I told her – and had identified Poppy’s body. Which doesn’t really bear thinking about. She has been there for two days, talking to funeral directors and HR people and lawyers, all quite complicated, and they were going to drive her home, but she asked to come here instead. I think that because Poppy had given me her number she knows that Poppy trusted us. And perhaps she wanted to talk to someone who Poppy trusted. She had spent a lot of time with Sue Reardon and Lance James, and perhaps she had questions that they couldn’t answer. Or perhaps she didn’t believe their answers.
You could tell she was shattered, so we agreed to reconvene in the morning. She got a hug and kind words from everyone while I made up a hot water bottle.
I can hear her tossing and turning; I don’t expect she will sleep well. I forgot to ask her what she likes for breakfast, so I will head up to the shop first thing and get everything, just in case.
Speaking of half-term, Ron’s grandson is with us for a few days. Ron’s daughter, Suzi, works in travel and is going to a conference in the Caribbean. If you can have a conference in the Caribbean?
Her husband, Danny – he takes offence if you say Daniel – is going with her, taking a break from his busy job of no one quite knows what. He wears suits, but not ties, if that’s a clue? Ron jumped at the chance of some time with Kendrick. When we last saw him, he was delightful, so one hopes he still will be. It’s round about twelve that the charm wears off with boys, though most of them get it back sooner or later.
47
‘Uncle Ibrahim, what’s better, a monkey or a penguin?’
‘A penguin,’ says Ibrahim, and pats the seat next to the bed. Kendrick sits down.
‘Oh, OK, Grandad didn’t know. Why is a penguin better than a monkey?’
Ibrahim puts his paper down. ‘Kendrick, do you know why I like you?’
Kendrick shakes his head. ‘I don’t even know at all.’
‘You ask very good questions. Not many people do.’
‘Why don’t they?’ asks Kendrick.
‘Well, there you go again,’ says Ibrahim. ‘Now, penguins are better than monkeys, because “penguin” is a very specific term, and “monkey” is very unspecific. If we say “monkey” then different people see different things, maybe a mandrill, maybe a little marmoset, whereas if you say “penguin” then we all picture the same thing. Words are very important, most people don’t know that, and the more specific a word is, the better it is.’
‘But is an actual penguin better than an actual monkey?’
Ibrahim thinks. ‘No animal is better than any other animal. We are all just a collection of atoms smashed together. Even people. Even trees.’
‘Even tigers?’
‘Even tigers.’
Kendrick blows out his cheeks.
‘Even hippos?’
Ibrahim nods. He goes back to his crossword.
‘What are you doing?’ asks Kendrick, hopping. ‘Is it a puzzle?’
‘A crossword puzzle,’ says Ibrahim.
‘Is it boring or interesting?’
‘A bit of both,’ says Ibrahim. ‘That’s why I like it.’
Ron stands and stretches. ‘I’m just going to nip down to the shop. Ibrahim, would you like an ice cream?’
‘No, thank you, Ron,’ says Ibrahim.
‘No one wants an ice cream, righty-ho,’ says Ron and turns to go.
Kendrick clamps his lips together and lets out a small noise. Ron turns back.
‘You all right there, Kendrick?’
Kendrick keeps his lips together, and murmurs an uncertain ‘mmm hmm’.
‘Nothing you want? Some eggs? Washing-up brush? Toilet cleaner? Sardines?’
Kendrick shakes his head.
‘You sure? I’m going to the shop anyway. Bottle of whisky? A cabbage? I can get you a cabbage, if you want?’
Kendrick looks down. ‘No, thank you, Grandad.’
Ron smiles and picks his grandson up. ‘Maybe an ice cream though?’
Kendrick looks at him. ‘Really?’
‘You’re on holiday, Kenny. It ain’t a holiday without an ice cream.’
‘Were you just teasing?’
‘I was just teasing.’
‘Could I get a Twister? I had one when I stayed at Grandad Keith’s.’
Grandad Keith. That old fraud. You don’t buy a house that big from selling used cars. And a Millwall fan too. Also, when had Kendrick stayed at Grandad Keith’s? Suzi had kept that quiet. Something wasn’t right with Suzi and Danny.
‘I’ll tell you what, you can have two,’ says Ron, and puts Kendrick down as he wriggles with delight.
‘I have never had two Twisters before.’
Out of the window Ron sees Joyce walking with Siobhan. Poor Poppy’s mum, she turned up last night. Ron knows he should be feeling nothing but sympathy for Siobhan, but really he’s thinking what a good-looking woman she is. Give it a week though, he thinks. He really wouldn’t mind chancing his arm. After the funeral, maybe?
He leaves Kendrick with Ibrahim, both happy. As he slips on his coat he can still hear Ibrahim.
‘What’s another word for “parallelogram”? Seven letters?’
‘I don’t th
ink there is another word,’ says Kendrick.
‘Maybe you’re right,’ says Ibrahim.
Ron opens the front door and smiles. How did he end up with a grandson and a best mate like these two? Lucky fella.
48
Patrice left this morning. There was a cab to the station, there were tears. Even the odd one or two from her. The flat feels very empty, and Chris feels empty too.
Elizabeth and the gang had liked Patrice. On their way out, Joyce had whispered, ‘Oh, Chris, she’s a dream,’ and Ron had given him a thumbs-up and said, ‘Give her one from me, son.’
Chris is hungry.
Earlier this week he had been chopping up peppers, just like he had seen people doing on MasterChef. He had a red pepper, a green pepper and a yellow pepper. He has always known that you can buy them in packets of three from the supermarket. He has walked past them thousands of times in his life. Mocking him with their healthiness, as he made his way to the pies and pasta aisle.
He’s back in work tomorrow. Trying to catch Connie Johnson. There’s a team down from London to ‘help out’.
Chris has always fantasized about being the sort of man who might buy the red, yellow and green peppers. The sort of man who would buy broccoli or ginger or beetroot out of choice. To Chris, the fruit and veg aisle at the supermarket was where he bought bananas and occasionally a bag of spinach to put at the top of his basket in case he bumped into anyone he knew. People always look into your basket, don’t they? Chris wanted to pretend he shopped and ate like a grown man. Slip the KitKats under the spinach and no one’s any the wiser.
Chris thinks back to the day a cashier in Tesco’s was scanning his shopping. As she swiped through the chocolate, the crisps, the Diet Coke, the sausage rolls, she had looked up with a kind smile and said, ‘What is it, dear, a child’s birthday party?’ Chris has used self-service checkouts ever since.
He and Patrice had gone food shopping. Patrice asked him if he ever cooked stir fries, and Chris had lied and said that he did, and Patrice said she hadn’t seen a wok anywhere, so Chris had admitted that, no, he didn’t actually cook stir fries, but that he had always wanted to.
The Man Who Died Twice (The Thursday Murder Club) Page 19