by Lucy Banks
“Oh yes, I did hear of that,” Serena said, smiling. “Gosh, you were on that case? That’s impressive.”
Dimitri chuckled down the line. Mike scowled, looking as though he’d happily like to throttle the Russian with his bare hands.
“Kester’s got a lead,” he growled, still glaring at Serena. “Haven’t you, mate?”
Kester nodded and quickly outlined what he’d discovered about Peter Hopper and the Ancient History Club. Larry Higgins grunted, clearly unimpressed.
“Not much to go on, is it?” he muttered with an impatient sigh. “I mean, I bet all the old gits in Lyme Regis are members of that club. Old people love history, don’t they?”
“Dunno. You tell us; you’d probably know,” Mike retorted, ignoring Miss Wellbeloved’s warning nudge.
Higgins spluttered, obviously wanting to make a sharp retort but managing to hold it in. “Myself and Lara,” he continued with deliberate coldness, “discovered that Deirdre Baxter also subscribed to Ghost-Hunter’s Monthly.” He paused for dramatic effect. “If you ask me, that’s more of a lead.”
“Yes, we discovered the subscription paperwork in their bedroom,” Miss Wellbeloved added. “But an interest in the supernatural doesn’t necessarily link with a vicious spirit murder, as we all know from past experience.”
Higgins coughed. “So, how shall we proceed? Interview Frank Saunders, the husband of the latest victim? What was her name again? Millicent? The old biddy who slipped over in the bathroom, anyway.”
“Meredith,” Miss Wellbeloved corrected. “It’s as good a place as any to start, I suppose.”
“While you’re doing the interview,” Kester added, “I’d like to go and talk to Peter Hopper, if you don’t mind. I know you think it’s nothing, but I reckon it’s worth further investigation.”
“Bloody hell, he sounded just like Gretchen there, didn’t he?” Higgins said with begrudging approval.
“Larry knew your mother too,” Miss Wellbeloved explained to Kester. “We were all at university together.” She laughed. “Larry, I said that to him myself, literally only about an hour ago. Sometimes they are very alike.”
“Hmm, and a talented spirit door-opener too,” Higgins said musingly. “Well, well. Anyway, I’ll arrange the next interview for sometime this week. I presume you haven’t got anything else on, so timing doesn’t matter?”
Miss Wellbeloved took a deep breath. “We can be as flexible as you need us to be,” she replied politely.
“Yes, thought as much,” was the retort.
Kester was briefly tempted to tell Lara that he’d seen her in town on Saturday, then decided against it. After all, he reasoned, she probably wouldn’t want everyone to know she’d been visiting the city for cosmetic surgery. He found himself wondering again why she hadn’t just found a clinic in Southampton. It was most odd.
“Lara, would you be able to join me to talk to Mr Hopper?” he said suddenly. “You’re good around people, I wonder if you’d get more out of him than me.”
Lara laughed. “Yeah, sure, why not? If Mr Higgins is alright with that. I didn’t feel like I was a whole lot of use when we were talking to Errol Baxter.”
“Yes, I think it’s wise if you have additional support from my team,” Higgins concluded. “You probably need a bit of help. Right, let’s crack on then. Not a moment to lose.”
Without any further niceties, Higgins hung up, and they were left with the loud ring of the dial tone echoing around the office. Mike prodded Kester on the arm.
“I like your style!” he said approvingly and gave him a conspiratorial nod.
“What do you mean?” Kester said, feeling himself redden.
“You’ve already got one girl on the go, and you’re working on the next—you old dog.”
He flustered and quickly shut his notepad. “Do you mean Lara?”
“I certainly do mean the lovely Lara.”
Oh gosh, if Mike thinks I fancy her, does that mean Lara might think that too? he wondered in a sudden state of panic. He shook his head earnestly. “It really isn’t like that at all. I genuinely thought she’d be better at talking to Peter Hopper than me.”
Mike gave him a thumbs up. “You’ve got some smooth moves, Kester. I think I’m going to have to watch and learn.”
“For heaven’s sake,” Serena snapped as she stood up and straightened her skirt. “She’s not even that pretty, she looks like a man. Plus, she has the most awful loud Texan accent. Quite brash, if you ask my opinion.”
“Ah come on, she looks like Grace Jones crossed with a sexy cowboy,” Mike replied. “She’s hot, in a kind of androgynous way.”
Serena pursed her lips until they had thinned to a dangerous red line. She scowled down at him. “You’re just desperate for any sort of female attention, aren’t you?” she said sarcastically. “I mean, when did you last have a girlfriend?”
“When did you last have a boyfriend?”
“I’ll have you know, I regularly date people. I just don’t feel it necessary to discuss my personal life in the office like you do.” She tossed her hair as though daring him to continue. Unsurprisingly, Mike rose to the challenge.
“Oh, you regularly date people, do you? You know imaginary boyfriends don’t count, right?”
“Well, better imaginary boyfriends than inflatable plastic girlfriends, eh?”
Kester laughed. He couldn’t help himself. “You’re like an old married couple, you two,” he said. Miss Wellbeloved and Pamela nodded in agreement. Mike and Serena looked horrified.
“In his dreams,” Serena said snidely.
“In my nightmares, more like.”
“Well,” Pamela interrupted as she crossed her arms across her enormous bosom. “Wonderful as it would be to watch you two bickering all day, I suppose we’d better get on with some work. Who’s for a cup of tea?”
Immediately, all hands shot up—more out of habit than anything else. Dutifully, Pamela bobbed away to the kitchen area. As Kester got up, Miss Wellbeloved tapped him smartly on the arm and nodded towards his father’s office door.
“Why don’t you have a word now?” she said. “He needs to be kept up to date, it’s his agency after all.”
“Couldn’t you do it?” Kester protested. “He’s in a terribly ranty mood today.”
“No,” Miss Wellbeloved replied. Her jaw tightened, and, for a moment, her steel-grey eyes softened. “I think he needs a gentler approach just now, and you’re better at it than I ever was.”
Kester sighed. He simply couldn’t say no to Miss Wellbeloved when she looked vulnerable, despite his own personal feelings about addressing his father in his present state of mind. Straightening his shirt, he sloped hesitantly over to Ribero’s office. His fist hovered over the door. Out of the corner of his eye, he could see Miss Wellbeloved flapping her hands in an encouraging manner. He knocked quietly.
“Dad, alright if I come in?”
Silence greeted him. He pressed his ear against the wood. “Dad? Are you alright?”
He heard a low groan. Alarmed, he shoved the door open. The usual cloud of nicotine-filled smoke billowed out, and he ploughed through it, immediately spotting his father in the armchair, slumped over like a ragdoll.
“Dad, what’s happened?”
“Shut the door!” his father hissed, lifting his head. His jaw was taut with pain.
Kester obeyed, then crouched beside Ribero. “What’s happened?” he repeated. “Do I need to call for an ambulance?” He noticed the dropped cigarette, singeing a neat black hole into the rug, and quickly scooped it up, squashing it into the ashtray.
“No, no ambulance,” his father muttered. “It will pass in a moment.”
“What will pass? You look like you’re having a heart attack.”
His father chuckled, then winced again. “No, it’s not the heart attack. No
t anything like that.” Gradually, he leaned back, pressed his head against the leather, and exhaled deeply.
“What the hell is going on then?” Kester asked.
“Muscle cramp,” Ribero replied. “It’s part of the Parkinson, right?”
Kester frowned. “That looked like one heck of a painful muscle cramp,” he said.
Ribero nodded. He leant across, pulled out another cigarette from the packet, and lit it. Kester noticed that his hands were shaking.
“Dad, I really think you should see a doctor about this.”
“Ah.” His father waved away the comment, wrapping his lips lovingly around the cigarette and blowing out a perfectly round smoke ring. “I am seeing a doctor, my boy. But there is nothing they can do. This is normal with the Parkinson, you see?”
Kester sat heavily on the swivel chair and rested his elbows on his knees. He watched his father closely; observing the vague tremor in his arms, he wondered how he hadn’t noticed it before. Now that he was aware of it, it seemed so obvious.
Ribero stared at the ceiling, chewing his lip. “You know,” he said finally, meeting Kester’s eye, “it’s not something you think will happen, when you are the young man. I remember being your age, coming to England for the first time, all energy and fire, right? I never thought I would get old.”
“It happens to everyone, Dad.”
Ribero sighed. “I don’t expect you to understand. It is only when you get old, you realise that life isn’t as long as you thought it was. I still cannot believe Gretchen is dead. So many years have passed, and now I have missed the chance to ever talk to her again.”
Kester leaned over and patted his dad’s knee. “Dad,” he began. “When are you going to tell the others about your illness?”
His father bristled, sitting up straighter. “I do not know,” he snapped. “But you will not say a word, okay? I am trusting you with this.” He jabbed a finger in Kester’s direction to emphasise the point.
“They’re going to notice sooner or later,” Kester replied.
“You didn’t notice, did you?”
Kester shrugged. That’s probably because I’m a bit slow on the uptake, he thought. They sat in silence, each lost in their thoughts.
“Look, I’ll do the BA in Spirit Intervention and Business Studies, okay?” he blurted suddenly. His father looked up, brightening.
“You mean it? You are going to apply?”
“I suppose so, if it would make you happy.”
Ribero mumbled something in Spanish and clasped his hands together, a beam of pure white-toothed brilliance spreading under his moustache. “Ah!” he exclaimed, accidentally flicking cigarette ash over the floor. “You have made an old man very happy, Kester! This is good news!”
“Well,” Kester began, “I’m glad it makes you happy. I’ll put in my application tonight.”
“You are a good boy! I am proud of you.”
“Perhaps you could do something in return?” Kester ventured. I may as well seize my opportunity while I can, he thought, though I’m pretty sure I know what the answer will be.
“What is that?”
“Get involved in the Lyme Regis case and talk to Larry Higgins?”
Ribero tutted. His face darkened immediately, like the sun disappearing behind a cloud. He pulled on his moustache, eyes narrowing to slits.
“You know why I cannot work with this man, right?”
“Come on, Dad,” Kester pressed. “It’s been decades. Isn’t it time to just leave the past where it belongs?”
“That man stole my chance in life.”
Kester gestured around him at the oversized leather-topped desk, the smart armchair, the faded rug. “You’ve not done so badly for yourself, have you?” he said. “I mean, you’ve got your own agency.”
“Yes, and so has the Higgins. And even worse, the Higgins set up his agency on his own. I was given my agency by Jennifer’s father.”
Yes, because he thought you were going to marry his daughter, Kester added silently. He kept his expression neutral. “Well?” he continued. “Do you think there’s even the remotest chance you’d give it a go?”
Ribero rubbed at his temples and studied Kester with the intensity of an eagle surveying a vole. “Can I think about it?” he asked finally.
“Tell you what,” Kester said, suddenly feeling rather impish. “I’ll do to you what you did to me, when I asked if I could think about applying for the BA. I’ll harass you about it regularly until you give in. How about that?” He winked at his father.
Ribero glared, then burst out laughing.
“What’s so funny?” Kester asked.
Ribero wiped his eyes. “Ah, when you say things like that, I can see clearly that you are my son. Full of nerve, yes?”
Kester grinned. “I surprise myself sometimes.”
“Well, it will not be easy,” Ribero continued. “Higgins . . . he reminds me of a toad. A big, smug toad, you know what I mean?”
“Oh yes, definitely,” Kester agreed. “But I’m sure you’ll be able to handle this particular toad perfectly well, Dad. And, if for no other reason, you should watch Mike wind him up. It’s great fun.”
Ribero’s eyes brightened. “Now that would be worth seeing. Tell Mike, if he promises to give the Higgins as hard a time as possible, I will come.”
Kester grinned again. “I don’t think Mike will have a problem with that.” He rose and patted his father on the shoulder. “I’ll go and let the others know. They’ll be really pleased.”
Ribero rolled his eyes and continued to puff away at his cigarette, waving him from the room. Kester turned to leave, keen to let the others know the good news. As he slipped out the door, he turned to say goodbye, and noticed Ribero shuddering with pain. His face fell.
“Are you sure you’re okay?” he asked tentatively.
His father looked up and nodded. “Yes, I am fine, now off you go,” he declared grandly, and forced a smile.
But Kester could see, as clearly as anything, that he wasn’t fine at all.
Chapter 10: History Clubs and Tarot-Card Readers
Lyme Regis Town Hall was a rather peculiar building, to say the least. Glowing white in the sharp autumnal sun, its single brick turret jutted into the blue sky, outdone only by its impressive coat-of-arms-clad porch. Beside him, Lara looked up, whistled, then spat reflectively into the road.
“Quite a place to talk about ancient history,” she drawled. “You English really have got it going on when it comes to old buildings.”
Kester surveyed the town hall sceptically. “Yeah, it is rather flashy, isn’t it? And the oversized Union Jack flag probably doesn’t help.”
“It’s definitely overkill,” Lara confirmed, then snorted with laughter; a fulsome noise that reminded Kester of a horse whinnying. They’d found the place easily enough—nestled at the far end of the beach—and they’d been enjoying the pleasant weather, even though the sea breeze had been rather bracing. The rest of the team was currently at Meredith Saunders’s home, trying to uncover more useful information than they’d found at Deirdre Baxter’s.
“Shall we?” Lara leant against the wall, casual as a sheriff in a western movie.
Kester nodded, then rapped smartly. After only a few seconds, the heavy door groaned open, and a balding gentleman peered out at them suspiciously. Peter Hopper, I presume, Kester thought as he observed the paunch poking from the underside of the shirt and the turkey neck dangling over the collar.
“I take it you’re Kester Lanner?” Hopper announced in a strong Yorkshire accent as he eyed them both with guarded interest. “Do you want to come in?”
“Yeah, it’s cold out here. I’m freezing my ass off,” Lara confirmed, rapping her backside just in case there was any doubt about which part of her anatomy she was referring to. Peter Hopper’s eyes narrowed with dis
approval, but he moved to let them through nonetheless.
The inside was much as Kester would have expected: simple, white-washed walls lined with aged wood panels, dark beams and pillars, salt-stained windows. Nothing too pretentious, but nonetheless, a distinct sense of age and tradition. Peter Hopper waited, arms folded across his barrel chest.
“I’d offer you a drink,” he began, “but I’ve got to rush off to a meeting in a few minutes, so we’ll have to be quick. I presume this won’t take long.”
“It shouldn’t do,” Kester said. He looked around for a chair, saw they were all stacked up against the wall in a distinctly unwelcoming way, and thought he’d better settle for standing instead. “We’d just like to ask you a few questions, to assist our investigations into the recent deaths.”
“Yeah, members are dropping like flies, aren’t they?” Hopper mumbled. “At this rate, there’ll be none of us left.”
Kester’s eyebrows bobbed upwards with interest. “Were other victims members of the Ancient History Club then? Not just Deirdre Baxter and Edna Berry?”
“All of ’em were members, they were,” Hopper confirmed, eyes fixed on the window, which framed the sea beyond like a picture postcard. “Earnest, he was the first to go. Good friend of mine, he was.”
Kester reached for his notepad, then rifled through the papers. “That’s Earnest Sunningdale, the man who fell on his shears?”
“That’s right.” Hopper’s lips tightened. “Earnest was a lovely chap. Wouldn’t hurt a fly. At the time, we all thought it were an accident. But now, we know better.”
An interesting comment, Kester thought and mentally filed it for later. What exactly does this man know, I wonder? “I presume your second member to be killed was Edna Berry, and the third was the doctor?” he asked, keen to press him further.
“Jürgen Kleinmann,” Peter Hopper confirmed. “Fell down the stairs. Or pushed. No one seems to want to tell us exactly what happened, though some of us have our theories. Then the other members, as you already know, were Deirdre Baxter and Meredith. Dear old Meredith. I’d even tried to phone her on the day of her death. But she never got the chance to call back.”