Jess Castle and the Eyeballs of Death

by M B Vincent

  ‘Is that it?’ Meera seemed deflated as the doll-sized Eden on the screen turned and walked back into police headquarters in an outbreak of camera flashes.

  ‘His hair looks nice,’ said Moyra.

  ‘They’ve got nothing.’ Squeezers was vehement. He coughed and the entire postcode flinched.

  Karen Knott was on the screen now; Jess could count the blackheads on her HD nose. ‘That’s all!’ she shrieked. ‘Get away! No questions! Off! Go on! Off!’

  ‘Somebody,’ murmured Rupert, ‘didn’t attend her police PR training module.’

  ‘I reckon,’ said Moyra, ‘the murderer’s somebody we’ve all known for years.’

  Squeezers was still coughing. He was almost on his knees. ‘I didn’t do it, missus,’ he spluttered.

  ‘The only thing you crucify is your health.’ Moyra was pleased with this. ‘His health!’ she repeated to Rupert as she brought the bill.

  Engrossed in thoughts of the bloody present and the ancient past, Jess let him pay without a tussle. She came to when he said, ‘Jess?’

  ‘Sorry. I was away with the fairies.’ She stood up.

  He loomed over her. ‘I suppose this is our table now.’

  ‘Is it?’ Her smile was lopsided. ‘I suppose it is, yeah.’

  Chapter 11

  HAPPY FAMILIES

  Sunday 22 May

  The water was like air around her.

  She struggled, but the movement drilled her deeper down into the dark.

  Her eyes stung.

  She heard a shout. Clear, despite the water. ‘It’s all your fault.’

  She opened her mouth and death rushed in.

  Jess sat up in bed. Not dead. Not drowned.

  But. The word nagged at her until she remembered.

  But it was Sunday. Which meant lunch with the family.

  She burrowed under the covers like a mole.

  Harriet Castle hadn’t insisted on much, but she’d always laid the table correctly. A formation of knives and forks either side of Wedgwood plates. The wedding-present candelabra. Two squat silver rose bowls of flowers from the garden. Best tablecloth. Linen napkins. Water carafes. A great-uncle’s cruet set.

  Jess and the Judge stood back. They’d done it as well as could be expected without Harriet overseeing them.

  ‘Back in Cambridge,’ said Jess, ‘I used paper plates.’

  ‘No doubt,’ said the Judge.

  They’d been press-ganged by Bogna, who’d said, ‘I don’t know how to bloody lay posh table.’

  Dad never helped Mum, thought Jess. Not even when there were twenty to dinner, as there frequently were. Jess wondered if Harriet had ever asked for help. Then she wondered if she herself had ever helped, and stopped wondering.

  Jess felt odd. Her hair was clean. She was in a fresh set of black bits and bobs. She’d applied lipstick. Formality set her teeth on edge; the Judge thrived on it. He was mixing gin and tonics – ‘Whoppers!’ – in jacket and slacks. An inevitable cravat.

  Bogna also looked uncomfortable in a stretchy dress that she kept tugging at as she dashed to and from the kitchen. This was, she told Jess, the first time she’d ever sat down at the table with Jimmy’s visitors. She didn’t seem happy about it.

  The gravel announced a car. Jess had a question before Sunday lunch proper kicked off.

  ‘Dad, did you ever have a psycho in your courtroom?’

  ‘Yes. Not always in the dock.’

  Jess laughed the way he did. A small chuckle, confined to the throat. The merest lift of the shoulders.

  The Judge nodded at the portrait over the fire, of a grand old gent at a leather-topped desk. Stick-thin. Solemn. ‘Your great-great-grandfather once put away a man called Herbert Bullen. Killed four wives in succession. Not a shred of remorse. He was a psychopath. No empathy. Grandiose bugger. Squandered the money he made from his crimes and, at the end, didn’t give a fig for his own life.’

  ‘Grandiose. No empathy. No remorse. Sounds like Pan.’

  ‘From Pitt’s Field?’

  ‘He’s the only real suspect in the cross murders.’

  ‘Or the Rustic Ripper, as the red-tops are calling him.’ The Judge wrinkled his long nose. ‘Not the tabloids’ finest hour.’

  ‘Trouble is, Pan has an alibi. Even it is from a gaggle of airheaded groupies.’

  The Judge set down the last plate. Stroked his chin. ‘Ah. So Eden can’t hang on to him.’

  They both cocked an ear to the noises on the drive. Little feet running. Weary adults shouting, ‘Don’t! Stop it! Leave that!’

  ‘Stephen and the family,’ said the Judge.

  Jess applauded his attempt at enthusiasm. ‘Forensics haven’t turned up anything helpful.’

  When the Judge turned stern, he looked just like the man over the mantelpiece. Apart from the wing collar. ‘How the hell do you know about forensics? How implicated are you, Jessica?’

  ‘I’m a consultant.’ Jess had imagined announcing it proudly to her father. It came out like a confession of wrongdoing.

  ‘I sincerely hope you’re not laying a trail of breadcrumbs to the door of Harebell House for this murderer to follow.’

  ‘If I get crucified I’ll make sure I do it off the premises.’

  ‘Sis!’ Stephen was in the room. Two small children, crazed like gremlins, had preceded his entry. His wife brought up the rear.

  His hair was giving up, Jess noticed. Retreating back over his head. He’d put on weight. Tall. Wide. Rugby shoulders. Stephen was in off-duty gear of ironed jeans and a cricket jumper.

  He punched her on the arm. No hugs: they weren’t French, for God’s sake.

  ‘Hear you’ve been a naughty girl,’ he said satirically.

  ‘Hear you’ve been a really boringly good boy,’ said Jess.

  ‘Darling! Have you lost weight?’ Susannah wrapped herself around Jess. A cloud of perfume. The rustle of yummy-mummy separates. ‘You look amazing! That colour’s brilliant on you.’

  It’s just black, Jess wanted to say. Instead, she said ‘Thank you’ and kissed her sister-in-law’s cheeks and made approving comments about Susannah’s hair/body fat/trousers. It was impossible to dislike Susannah. Yes, she was depressingly upbeat about every last little thing, but the woman meant it.

  ‘Sorry we’re late.’ They weren’t; Susannah had a compulsion to apologise. ‘We had to take a detour around the television crews camping out on the square. They were filming Squeezers playing the spoons.’

  ‘Stolen spoons, probably,’ said the Judge.

  A woman, an old woman, entered quietly. She had cheekbones you could slice bread with. A twinkle in her eye that might kill.

  ‘I didn’t know you were coming!’ Jess almost knocked over her diminutive great-aunt Iris with her embrace.

  Strictly speaking, Iris wasn’t an aunt. Generations ago, the Castle family tree had split into two distinct clans. Iris married into the branch that hung onto the noble rank, while Jess’s forebears went into the law. Great-aunt, they all agreed, was a far nicer title than the more precise umpteenth cousin twice removed. Iris felt like a great-aunt. That was what mattered.

  ‘Stephen brought me.’ Iris Castle was crisp; Jess read the subtext. A five-minute car journey with little Baydrian and Ann could put years on a person.

  ‘You’ll be needing one of Dad’s whoppers, then.’

  Taking Iris’s arm, Jess squired her great-aunt across the drawing room. Other people had sitting rooms; Jess would have preferred a sitting room. This was most definitely a drawing room.

  Iris was a beauty. The sort that doesn’t date. She was slender, but not arthritically so; red blood still pumped around her aged veins. White hair no particular way, yet sensational. She sat on a plump armchair and the others gathered naturally around as if this was her party.

  ‘Baydrian. Baydrian!’ Susannah had a hundred and one ways to say her six-year-old son’s name. This was the way she said it when he took down books from shelves and chucked them over
his shoulder.

  Baydrian’s sister watched silently.

  One day, thought Jess with some satisfaction, Ann will end Baydrian.

  ‘They do not look same,’ said Bogna, ‘for twins.’

  ‘IVF,’ said Susannah. ‘We couldn’t . . . well, I couldn’t . . . so, they’re not identical.’

  Iris saved them all from another canter through Susannah’s fallopian tubes by asking, ‘Who’s this striking young lady?’

  Mary had joined them. Her nod to the occasion was a floor-length taffeta skirt she’d found in a wardrobe. Irritatingly, she looked great in it.

  As Mary was introduced, and they all ‘bottoms up’-ed, the Judge said, ‘I invited young Rupert Lawson.’

  To him, everyone was young.

  ‘Why?’ Jess wondered why she was so dismayed. ‘You hardly know him.’

  ‘Rising star, apparently. Good friend of Stephen’s. Used to come to the house when you were kids.’

  ‘I do know that, Dad.’ Jess was a sulky teen, right down to the pout.

  ‘It was Mary’s idea.’ The Judge raised his glass to her; Mary won everybody over. ‘We could do with a fresh face at the table.’

  ‘I worry about beef.’ With Soviet sadness, Bogna looked longingly in the direction of the kitchen.

  ‘Mum did amazing roasts.’ Jess had a sudden, ferocious longing for Harriet’s gravy.

  ‘Bogna knocks up a fine Sunday lunch, too,’ said the Judge.

  ‘Stupid British tradition,’ said Bogna.

  A lull in the conversation opened up into a chasm they were all forced to stand around. Stephen did the decent thing.

  ‘No Josh today, Aunty?’

  ‘He’s so sorry to miss you all.’ Iris’s grandson was a no-show at most family events; she didn’t even try to sound sincere. Jess’s mother used to say that Josh was behind the door when manners were handed out. I should know, thought Jess, I was with him. ‘He’s caught up on the estate.’

  ‘Bamview council estate?’ asked Bogna. ‘On Richleigh Road?’

  ‘Sadly no,’ said Iris. She looked Bogna up and down. Liked what she saw. ‘Our estate. Kidbury Manor.’

  ‘Stately home?’ Bogna evidently didn’t know her Castle lore. ‘Wowee,’ she intoned gravely.

  ‘We weren’t supposed to inherit,’ said Iris. She held out her hand to Jess, who took it, standing by her chair. Iris had always done this at family do’s when Jess was small. ‘My late husband was the second brother. The one who usually gets to do his own thing. Then his older brother died, poor chap, and as there were no children, Seb and I had to come back from Kenya and take over the damn manor house.’

  ‘The damn manor house,’ interrupted the Judge, ‘is a listed building of great historical importance with a medieval porch and a chapel which was consecrated in 1790.’

  ‘The chapel roof leaks.’ Iris was brisk. ‘The porch is collapsing. You wouldn’t believe how much it costs to restore a medieval fresco. The manor’s a money pit. We should bulldoze it and build council houses. Why on earth should an old dame like me get to keep two hundred acres to herself? Just because I have a title? I never wanted to be Lady Kidbury.’

  ‘I hate the house being open to the public.’ The Judge stood in front of the empty grate, legs apart.

  ‘Would you care to see my heating bills? Josh had no option.’ Iris handed him her glass. ‘Top-up, please, James.’

  That was another of Iris’s gifts – she could hoover up a glass of gin without seeming to once bring it to her lips.

  Susannah jumped up. ‘The present!’ She rooted in one of the several holdalls she lugged everywhere.

  ‘For me?’ shrieked Baydrian.

  ‘No,’ snapped Stephen.

  ‘Not all presents are for you, darling,’ said Susannah, carefully calm. She stage-whispered to the adults, ‘He has ADHD. Or . . .’ Elbow-deep in a holdall, she turned to her husband. ‘Was it PTSD?’

  ‘PMS?’ offered Stephen.

  Mary stifled her snigger. Jess felt Iris squeeze her hand. They knew that the absurdly named Baydrian had no complicated condition. He was just a little shit.

  ‘Here it is!’ Triumphant, Susannah pulled out a squashed gift bag. ‘James. For you. To say thank you for having us.’

  ‘There’s no need.’ The Judge meant it. Gifts made him uneasy, and Susannah brought gifts each time she visited. The bag bore the logo of Castle Kidbury’s most overpriced gewgaw shop; a hotly contested title. ‘How lovely,’ said the Judge, peering in at the contents. ‘What, um . . .?’

  ‘It’s an incense burner.’ Susannah was mildly crestfallen. She took the item out of the Judge’s hands and began to assemble it on the coffee table. ‘This goes here, then you stick this here . . .’

  ‘All that to make the house smell?’ Mary was unimpressed.

  ‘Incense . . .’ said the Judge uncertainly.

  ‘I chose Magical Woodland,’ said Susannah.

  He’d rather have Wet Dog, thought Jess. She relinquished Iris’s hand to answer the doorbell.

  On the step, Rupert bore flowers and a bottle.

  ‘Am I late? I know your dad’s big on timekeeping.’

  ‘Is there stuff in your hair?’ Jess peered up at him. He was very tall; sometimes she forgot that. The frisson she experienced when she remembered was of no matter. ‘Are those Converses new?’ She pointed at the trendy but too-clean shoes.

  ‘I agree,’ said Rupert. ‘Polite hellos are overrated.’

  Mary barrelled out of the drawing room. She grabbed Rupert by the arm. ‘Save us!’ She dragged him towards the conservatory. ‘Save us, for feck’s sake, Rupes, from polite conversation and demon children.’

  Tomato plants stood triffid-like along the conservatory windowsills. It was sultry, the gentle May sunshine magnified by the profusion of glass.

  Ever alert for a game, Moose jumped onto Rupert’s lap. The dog thought he was still a pup; Jess could hardly see her guest, and enjoyed his confusion about whether or not it would be the correct etiquette to shove his host’s golden retriever onto the floor.

  ‘So, anyways, let me tell youse about me interview with your man, Eden,’ said Mary. She lit up a cigarette and blew the smoke expertly out of the side of her mouth, towards an open pane.

  ‘She was in pyjamas the whole time,’ interrupted Jess.

  ‘Nothing surprises me about you two,’ said Rupert, peering round Moose’s shaggy head.

  ‘Eden goes, was this Gavin kinky, like?’ Mary hooted, head thrown back. ‘Poor sod. I felt sorry for him. He had to ask me all about the sex, you know?’

  ‘I bet you told him,’ said Jess.

  ‘He asked if Gavin was into Satanism. I goes, no, but he was bang into blowjobs.’

  ‘Lovely.’ Jess shared a look with Rupert. She realised she hadn’t wanted Rupert to come to lunch because as long as he was outside Harebell House he was hers. Jess had never liked sharing. Doner kebabs. Toothbrushes. People.

  Mary went on. ‘Eden was like, who did Gavin speak to at the gig. I told them about Theresa. Gavin told me she was a superfan. She writes a fanzine. Not much in it about the songs but plenty about Gavin’s arse.’ Mary looked into the middle distance. ‘Which is understandable,’ she said, in a dreamy voice.

  ‘You know that saying “don’t speak ill of the dead”?’ said Jess. ‘May I extend it to “don’t speak hornily of the dead”?’

  ‘Jesus, yeah. I keep forgetting he’s dead.’ Mary crossed herself. A committed atheist, sometimes the Irish in her won. ‘Poor Gavin. Such a thick.’

  Rupert raised his eyebrows, shook his head. Jess knew him well enough by now to know he was relishing this.

  ‘I think,’ said Jess, ‘that the Baldur logo on Keith’s body is a red herring. The murderer’s carving random images on the corpses.’ She described them. Triangles. Circles. Crosses. All the usual elements of ancient lore but in an unconventional order. They teased and nudged; You do recognise us if you dig deep enough, they said.

  Rupe
rt tried to flatten Moose. The dog did not cooperate. ‘Is it after they’re dead? Or does the killer cut into them while they’re still alive?’

  ‘Jaysus!’ Mary shuddered. ‘Listen to Cheerful Charlie.’

  A gong sounded.

  Moose jumped off Rupert’s lap.

  ‘Are you kidding me? said Mary. ‘An actual feckin’ gong?’

  Jess did jazz hands. ‘Lunchtime!’

  All was correct. It was a still life of an English Sunday.

  The Judge stood at the head of the table. He held aloft a carving knife. The family sat around drooling. Even the children were mesmerised by the smell of gravy.

  The doorbell rang.

  The Judge put down his knife. ‘Who in blazes can that be?’ It’s a serious matter to get between an Englishman and his beef. ‘Get the door, Stephen. Send them away.’

  Everybody stared at the joint of beef as Stephen hurried out.

  ‘I do hope I’m not interrupting? Is James in?’ The foghorn of Patricia Smalls carried from the hall. The armour-plated mayoress saw Stephen off easily. ‘Why, look at you all!’ Patricia breezed into the dining room holding a cut-glass bowl. ‘I do love a family gathering.’

  She never gives up, marvelled Jess. Patricia had pursued her father for years, not bothering to hide her amorous agenda from Harriet.

  ‘Ah. Yes. Patricia.’ The guest was the one person for whom the Judge’s authority carried no weight whatsoever. ‘Why . . . don’t you . . . Bogna?’

  Bogna waited just long enough for her resistance to register. ‘I’ll get a chair then, isn’t it?’

  ‘Fabulous, dear. And put this in the fridge.’ Patricia thrust the bowl into Bogna’s arms.

  ‘The famous Smalls trifle,’ said Iris, with even more irony than she normally employed, as the room awaited the mayor’s next pronouncement. Because there always was a next pronouncement.

  ‘Don’t mind me, James.’ Patricia planted herself in Bogna’s seat. She waved a napkin at him. ‘Carve, do, go ahead.’ She turned to the others. ‘I’m here to tell you all about ThinkSpace.’

  ‘What’s the think space?’ Mary flicked a pea at Baydrian.

  ‘ThinkSpace, dear. One word, no definite article. It’s a new concept for the community. Somewhere to contemplate and create. People are saying it’s one of my best ideas.’