by M B Vincent
Was that a reprimand? A suggestion that she count her blessings? ‘Max, look at this.’ Jess never went anywhere without the printed symbols in one of her numberless pockets. ‘First, do you agree with my translation of the Ogham?’ It would be a crime to have one of the country’s foremost minds on the subject in her home and not exploit him.
Max scanned the page. ‘Yup. “Eyes”.’ He looked up. ‘What’s this? Where’s it from?’
‘I’d like to tell you, but then I’d have to kill you. To do with a murder investigation.’
‘Not the Rustic Ripper?’
‘I’m helping the police. There are traces of mysticism to the killings. A hint of Hecate.’
Footfall along the covered path to the pool. Jess felt Max tense up; she did the same. It was only Moose, desperate to join them.
The dog slithered to the deep end, alongside his favourite woman.
‘Better keep Moose away from Hecate,’ laughed Max. ‘You know her track record with dogs.’
‘Only on Deiphon.’ Jess put the giant dog in a headlock. He loved that. ‘On the night of Deiphon, Moosey, Hecate asks a lot of her followers. They have to do all the little chores they’ve been putting off, and they have to leave a snack out for her. Not your kind of snack. She prefers garlic and raw eggs and stuff. It has to be left at a crossroads or she gets proper miffed. And then they invite a stray dog into the house. They all pat it and love and snuggle it, and then they slaughter it. Because, you see, they transferred all their sins to the dog and Hecate will forgive them if the sins are disposed of.’
‘She’s a hard woman.’
‘Hard but fair.’ Jess reconsidered. ‘Actually, hard but pretty unfair.’
‘About time for the matriarchy to reassert itself,’ said Max, looking up at the moon. ‘When they were in charge of the movements of the sea and the fecundity of the earth, things were simpler. Bloody,’ he added. ‘But simple. When is the next Deiphon?’ He counted on his fingers.
Jess let him work it out even though she knew. She’d forgotten that feeling of being with people who were as entranced by the past as she was.
‘Keep Moose indoors on the second of June. In fact, keep yourself indoors that night. If Hecate’s mixed up in this, that date might be meaningful to your killer.’
‘He’s not my killer.’ Deep down, though, he was. Jess pointed to the piece of paper still in Max’s grasp. ‘Those other symbols, the line of shapes. Any ideas?’
‘Drivel, Jess.’
‘No, they mean something. Even if they’re made up. They’re based on something archaic.’
‘Shouldn’t you be working on your own conundrums right now?’
Here we go, thought Jess. She bowed her head.
‘I’m not going to ask you what happened. I know what happened. It was one of your, what should we call them?’ Max smiled. ‘Your lunatic moments?’
‘My life’s one long lunatic moment.’
‘Maybe it looks like that to you. To me, you look like a great lecturer, with a real feel for the subject. You communicate, Jess. You connect. That’s why I wanted you in the department.’
‘I was failing, Max.’ Jess had stood outside Max’s office, irresolute, for a long moment before she decamped the campus. As the course director, not to mention their shared history, he’d deserved some notice, a heads-up at least.
‘We could’ve talked about it. That’s part of my job. A senior lecturer’s supposed to keep an eye on his people. Especially the talented ones. I might have helped. You know – you should know, at least – I’m on your side.’
Praise was worse than criticism. Jess groped for the right words. ‘When you got me the job . . .’ She held up her hand and silenced Max. ‘You did get me the job. I know that. I was over the moon.’ Jess remembered the euphoria. Repaying her mother’s confidence. Hoping her father might at last take her seriously. ‘Teaching Associate at St John’s College, of all places. It was a fairy tale.’ A Grimm fairy tale, as it turned out.
Max stroked his chin. ‘Things seemed to be going well. The students obviously loved you. I sat in once or twice. I mean, you had your own style, no doubt about that, but it worked. Now I feel I should have seen the signs. Noticed you were struggling.’ He smiled. It was a sad smile. ‘Not waving but drowning, eh?’
What an apposite quote. Jess felt the oppressive waters of her dream around her. ‘I never felt worthy of the job,’ she admitted. ‘I know I come on like a steamroller, Max, but . . .’
‘Deep down you’re a delicate flower?’
They both laughed at that. Max could always coax her out of a funk.
‘I am,’ she protested. ‘Well, maybe a delicate weed.’
‘You’re a one-off, Jess Castle. It was my fault, really. I should’ve eased you in with a part-time position. Then moved things along when you found your feet.’
‘Come on, Max! How is any of this your fault?’ Jess refused to let him shoulder the blame. It was all hers, and she was hanging onto it. ‘You stuck your neck out for me, and I let you down.’ Shame thudded in her blood. ‘Have you taken flak for it? From the faculty, I mean.’
‘A bit, here and there. But, yeah, you’re right. We weren’t short of good applicants. One of them in particular was a bit of a star. I kept pulling the conversation back to you. So, yes, I did stick my neck out for you.’
Jess knew why. ‘Perhaps that was half the problem.’
Here was the nub of it. This can of worms was never opened. It wasn’t something they talked about.
‘Sorry, how’d you mean?’ Max squinted.
‘Well, you know, what happened with us . . .’
‘Happened?’ Max’s shrug was a question.
Was he really going to make her spell it out? ‘You and me, Max. When we, when, you know . . .’ They were two Victorian virgins, unable to use the proper nouns and verbs.
‘Oh!’ Max caught on. ‘That!’
Nights of talking, followed by lovemaking, in Max’s book-filled Cambridge rooms. There had been a weekend away, under canvas. All pleasantly transgressive, given that at the time he was a professor and she an undergraduate. It had tapered off. But it shone bright in Jess’s memory. ‘Yes, that,’ she smiled. She remembered how small that tent had been.
Max looked at her. Appraising. ‘Um . . .’ he said.
She realised. ‘You forgot.’ He had forgotten the talking. The tent. The lovemaking.
‘It was a long time ago.’
‘Not that long.’ Re-evaluating at warp speed. Was Jess – oh God! – one of many? She knew Max to be kind and clever and gentle. He could be all those things and a philanderer too.
‘Jess, you didn’t let me finish. I was saying that, yes, I stuck my neck out for you, but there’s more. Why did I stick my neck out? Not because of that. It was because I believed in you.’ They both heard that past tense clang to the ground. ‘You had, you have, all the stuff it takes to be a brilliant research fellow. You’re capable of having a terrific career. Academia belongs, I hope, to people like you. That’s why I wanted you to take the job. Because I believed you were the best person for it. Not because of something that happened ten years ago.’
Thirteen, actually. ‘What the hell do I do now, Max?’
‘How’d you mean?’
‘How do I fix this?’ Max’s confidence emboldened her. So, yes, she was a forgettable lover, but she sounded like a hell of a lecturer. She could go back. Change the habit of a lifetime and face the music.
‘Oh, Jess.’ Max’s face drooped. ‘There’s nothing to do. This is it.’
‘What if I—’
He shook his head. ‘Gordon Clarke’s not ready to be persuaded.’ The faculty head had never warmed to Jess. Clarke was the Judge on steroids; her anti-authoritarian schtick had gone down very badly with him. ‘You can’t come back, Jess.’
Her bridges were burnt. They hadn’t even lit her way. ‘Bet he’s making life difficult for you,’ she said.
‘I can handle Gordon.
’
She sensed his desire to console her. Her invocation of the past made him nervous to touch her. ‘I’ll be fine, Max. I’ll find something to do.’ Murder’s as good a hobby as any, she thought.
‘It’s such a shame.’ The sentiment was wrenched out of Max on a sigh. ‘Such a terrible shame.’
Chapter 18
NEVER BE GUEST OF HONOUR AT A FUNERAL
Friday 27 May
A modest crowd was gathered in Eddie’s function room. Red flock wallpaper. Gilt chandelier. Carpet louder than the conversation.
‘We need this,’ said Eddie, helping Carli hand round something fizzy that wasn’t champagne. ‘Castle Kidbury needs to get together and mourn.’
Gavin’s official funeral reception was taking place simultaneously at the Blakes’ home. A last duty before they forsook the town.
‘Helena,’ said the Judge, as a svelte lady all in black put an empty glass back on the tray. ‘Good to see you.’
‘And you.’
Jess felt the extra layer in her father’s greeting. The recognition that Helena’s presence required fortitude. All in a polite code that made everybody feel better without mentioning it, the tragedy that marked Helena out as different.
Jess hadn’t seen Helena since spotting her that first day back in Castle Kidbury. All the attributes she remembered were still apparent. Elegance. Pride. A feminine lack of rough edges.
‘This must be fucking hard on you,’ said Jess, who was all rough edges, with none of the Judge’s innate courtliness.
‘It’s hard for all of us.’ Helena put her hand on Jess’s cheek. She had been managing other people’s impotent sympathy for almost twenty years. She was skilled. ‘I must dash. Back to the spa.’ She noticed Jess’s puzzlement. ‘I run the Chase Hall Spa. It’s my baby. I do treatments at home, too. Bit cheaper. Come and see me for some pampering.’
‘I’ll do that,’ said Jess, who wanted to please Helena. She would never do that; Jess hated spas more than she hated dentists. She accepted the green and pink rate card.
Richard and Doug signalled ennui by the vol-auvents. Meera and Moyra stood by the photocopied portrait of Gavin held by magnets to a whiteboard. Dr Rasmussen, burly and unhealthy like all the best medics, drank whisky with Graham in a corner.
Jess mingled. Rupert was nowhere to be seen. He might have helped make it less sad. Less boring. There had been no texts since she’d seen him with Pandora. Which didn’t matter.
Pleasantries with Kuzbari.
A sexist homophobic unfunny joke from Ryan. Carli laughed. She wore black lipstick ‘out of respect’.
Susannah left to collect Baydrian and Ann. There was so much collecting required by children, thought Jess as she wondered what Susannah had meant when she chirped, ‘See you Sunday!’ over her shoulder.
There was a speech; Eddie stood up to the plate. Short. To the point. Pointless. Nobody in the room had really known Gavin.
Jess ticked off the platitudes.
Gavin was taken too soon.
He was a fine young man.
He had his whole life ahead of him.
She raised her glass with the rest of them. She felt for Gavin. The sacrificial lamb of Castle Kidbury.
Across the room, Eden watched the crowd. Every inch a policeman. Jess felt her mood lift. A kindred spirit.
Making her way around the periphery of the wake, she saw Squeezers at the book of condolence Eddie had thought to put out.
‘Squeezers, Darling doesn’t have to sign it.’
She helped him manhandle the whippet, its paws coated with ink, until it left a paw-shaped smudge.
‘Darling insisted,’ said Squeezers.
There was a yelp from the dog. Ryan had trodden on her.
‘Gangway!’ said Ryan cheerfully. He half carried, half guided Theresa, whose legs had given way. ‘She’s pissed out of her head.’
‘Gavin!’ Theresa could barely pronounce the two-syllable name. She sobbed. She turned her head as she passed Squeezers and vomited on him.
Ryan didn’t break step.
Jess would prefer not to remember the twenty minutes she spent in the ladies’ loos with Squeezers, sponging Theresa’s breakfast out of his trousers.
When she rejoined the funeral, it was winding down. The crowd had thinned. Patricia Smalls, in a black trouser suit, was wagging her finger at somebody.
Jess didn’t care. She scouted for Eden.
‘You have no respect, young man,’ Patricia was saying. ‘Coming to a funeral dressed so casually.’
And suddenly Jess did care. ‘Patricia,’ she broke in. ‘Neil’s wearing a T-shirt with the name of Gavin’s band on it. He’s a fan. He’s showing Gavin a great deal of respect.’
Neil Semple, eyes on the floor, showed no interest in the women fighting over his honour.
‘Neil was at Gavin’s very last gig.’
‘What’s a gig?’ Patricia didn’t wait for the answer. She sped off on oiled wider-fits.
‘Hey, Neil.’ Jess put a hand on his shoulder. Felt the knob of bone before he jerked his body away. ‘We’re not schoolkids anymore. You don’t have to let Patricia Smalls talk to you like that.’ She hoped his granddad fed him: Neil was skin and bone.
‘Is the booze free?’
‘Er, yeah.’
He sloped away to take a glass in each hand.
By the exit sign, duty done, was Eden. Jess got there before he could leave.
‘Have you seen who’s here?’ She pointed. ‘Unthank.’ She dropped her arm. Unthank had seen her point and raised a sarcastic glass to her. ‘Oh shit, he’s coming over.’
‘Howdy, Detective. And, no, I forget . . .’
‘Jess,’ said Jess.
‘I thought a great friend of Gavin’s like you would be at the official funeral,’ said Unthank.
‘Ditto,’ said Jess.
‘I was. Then I came here.’
‘Back to London, are you, now you’ve paid your respects?’
Unthank turned to Eden. ‘Is she always this nosey?’
‘What are your plans?’ asked Eden, and Jess could have kissed him for not backing up the odious Unthank.
‘Not sure. Might hang around. See what’s what.’ He ambled off.
‘You buying that?’ whispered Jess. ‘Unthank came to Castle Kidbury for Gavin’s gig. Keith Dike’s murder was . . .’ Jess counted on her fingers. ‘Five days before the Druid’s Head. This town isn’t that interesting. Particularly for a cool dude like that. Those scruffy trousers cost a fortune.’
‘He’s from Dalston,’ said Eden. ‘That’s a rough area of London. Probably doesn’t have much money.’
‘My dear detective sergeant,’ said Jess, ‘you need to get up to the capital more often. A coffee’ll set you back a fiver in Dalston these days. And it’ll be single origin, cold press, served in an eggcup with chia seeds on the side. Nobody who wears the sort of clothes Unthank wears would stay one night longer than they absolutely had to in a bargain-basement hotel.’
‘I agree that something doesn’t add up. Doesn’t make him a killer, Jess.’ Eden checked his watch. ‘I have to get back.’
‘Are you sleeping?’
‘Don’t worry about me.’
‘I want to,’ smiled Jess.
‘I’ll be in touch.’
‘John Eden!’ Patricia swooped. Blocked his way. ‘How lovely to see you out and about, socialising again. Such a pity about you and Mrs E, but here you are, on the market once more!’
‘This isn’t a party, Patricia.’ Jess stood slightly in front of Eden. ‘He’s here in an official capacity at the funeral of a murder victim.’
‘It’s a start.’ Patricia chucked Eden under the chin.
While he recoiled, she clapped her hands. ‘Everybody! Quiet! I have a few words to say!’
None of the words were ‘Gavin Blake’.
‘I don’t believe it.’ Jess nudged Eden. ‘She’s hijacking a funeral.’
‘ThinkSpace,’ began Pat
ricia, as shoulders drooped around the room, ‘is a game-changing concept in the development of community centralisation. I hope – I know – that I’ll see you all at the grand opening tomorrow night, when I’ll be escorted by Castle Kidbury’s most esteemed resident, his honour Judge James Castle QC.’
Jess led the applause.
Her father went pale.
‘May I introduce you to the prominent broadcaster who’ll cut the ribbon? Say a few words, Shane! Ladies and gentlemen, Shane Harper.’
The prominent broadcaster wiped his mouth and left his wife’s side.
His second wife. Jess had heard from Bogna all about the scandal of Shane leaving his wife of many years and their four children for his personal assistant. Bogna’s favourite detail from her extensive gossip column research: ‘The floozy is same age as his oldest daughter!’
Skin a suspicious orange, hair highlighted and bouffant, Shane might have strayed from a Bucks Fizz tribute act. When he spoke, this Emperor of Naff had a neon mono-tooth.
‘Thank you, Mayor Smalls,’ said Shane, after he’d jokingly insisted that the non-existent applause stop. He cleared his throat. Peered at his notes. ‘The Think Space—’
‘No definite article, all one word,’ hissed Patricia.
As Shane struggled to make sense of Patricia’s stream of consciousness, Jess stole over to her father’s side.
‘. . . Admixture of social and commercial forms . . . cross-sector integration . . .’
‘We’ve done our duty, Dad.’
They tiptoed out just as Shane half-heartedly predicted ThinkSpace franchises in London, Paris and Beijing.
The Judge had insisted they take her ‘jalopy’. He and Jess drove home in a silence that befitted the aftermath of a funeral.
They weren’t mourning Gavin; neither of them had known him well and the Castles weren’t hypocrites. They were waiting for the other shoe to drop. For the Judge to comment on Max’s visit. The silence on this subject had roared since Jess waved Max off the night before.
On the drive of Harebell House, Jess turned off the ignition.
‘Come on, Dad, let’s get it over with.’
The Judge paused, as though in contemplation before an historical address. ‘Words fail me, Jessica.’