by Lynda Renham
‘Who?’ he yells above the music.
‘Ark Morgan,’ I repeat.
‘Oh, I don’t really, not well anyway. He supports this Aids foundation I work with, and invited a representative to the do on the yacht, so I got to go. I met him though, nice guy. Is that why you wanted to meet me? Do you know him too?’
‘Kind of, I’m doing some research on charities and he gave me some names,’ I say, thinking what a bloody weak lie that is. He’s bound to see through it. ‘We did a thing on 30th May. Actually, I think I saw you there.’
Once you start lying it gets easier. He sings along to the music, and waves his arms around so much that he almost takes my eye out.
‘May 30th, can’t think where I was,’ he mumbles.
I’m sure he’d remember putting a bullet into someone.
‘Oh hang on,’ he says swinging around. ‘Umm, yeah, I remember. I was in the Isle of Wight.’
Isle of Wight? why the hell would anyone want to go there?
‘Isle of Wight,’ I repeat, ‘you sure about that?’
‘Yeah, sadly, it was my uncle’s funeral. He lived down there. It was a good wake though.’
‘You were there overnight?’
‘Yeah, whole weekend. I love this song do you?’
Oh dear. How do I tell the lovelies that one of them is with the murderer?
Sylvie
I’ve eaten so much I feel like a stuffed pig. Still, it was a Chinese, so no doubt in an hour I’ll be hungry again. Nigel takes my hand and we stroll towards the embankment.
‘It’s a beautiful night,’ I say.
‘Not as lovely as you,’ he says, leaning over to kiss me.
This couldn’t be more perfect. The Thames lapping below us, the stars shining above us and his lovely warm arms around me and finally his hot pulsating lips on mine. I meet his lips eagerly and feel him push me against the embankment railings. I pull away quickly. I’m surprised there isn’t a squelch as I pull my lips from his. I look down to the cold dark water.
‘You okay Sylvie?’ he asks.
What am I doing? The poor bloke will think I’m nuts. I can’t very well tell him I’m suspicious he may be a murderer.
‘Sorry, I’m a bit nervous of water,’ I say, feeling like a right wally.
He rubs my hand between his.
‘You’re cold, how about a nightcap to warm you up?’
I feel my phone vibrate in my bag but decide to leave it. I don’t want Nigel thinking I’m a wet blanket, scared of this, scared of that, and always peeking at my phone as if I’ve got someone else on the go.
‘That sounds lovely.’
‘There’s a pub up the road, or we could go back to my place.’
‘Oh,’ I say, ‘Where’s your place?’
Please don’t say Rommel, please don’t.
‘Clapham, where else, shall we get a cab?’
Thank God. I nod. A couple of drinks in me and I’ll be fine. We climb into the cab and I quickly check my phone.
Felix: Hugh isn’t the murderer girlies. I hate to be the bearer of bad news. He was at a funeral in the Isle of Wight. And yes, I thought it was dubious, so I ran a quick check. Your little Felix has got contacts now. I was thinking I might go into this investigative business full time. Anyway, cut to the chase, there was a funeral and old Hughie did a reading. So … one of you is with the murderer right now because Clive Marsham wasn’t at the party. He was on the guest list but not at the party as he’d been in hospital for the past month with some mystery illness. Anyway, simply type RED and I’ll call the police. But be sure to have concrete evidence first. We don’t want the murderer knowing we know until we do If you get my drift.
I wait for a response from Roxie but there isn’t one. Bollocks. He could have his hand around her throat at this very moment. I turn to Nigel to ask him what the hell I should do when he says to the cab driver.
‘Somerville Place, Clapham.’
Felix
I stare at the screen until the words blur. Jesus peanuts, why doesn’t one of them answer? How am I supposed to know which one is in trouble? I wait but just keep staring at my own message. Then the ticks turn blue. They’ve read it. Come on, one of you answer.
‘Everything alright?’ asks Hugh. ‘I’m getting another vodka, do you want one?’
‘Not for me, thanks love.’
I need to keep a clear head. I look down at my phone again. This is brilliant. I don’t even know where the bitches are. All I know is that one of them is with the fart who murdered the guy in Somerville Place. My hand grips the phone so tightly that my knuckles turn white. What’s going on?
I’ll give them fifteen minutes and then I’m phoning the police. What choice do I have?
Chapter Fifty-Four
It comes back to me in a flash and there, like a vision, is the memory of Sam at the rifle range. How could I have forgotten that? He was an expert marksman. He didn’t miss once. Sam is a man used to handling a gun. I hide my trembling hands and attempt to smile.
‘Do you remember that?’ he asks.
I can only nod. I am sure if I speak it will come out as a high-pitched squeal. I can hardly breathe. I look at the photo while trying to hide the horror from my face. Can it be possible? I wouldn’t feel the way I do when his hand touches mine, or lose myself within him when he kisses me. I would have felt it, surely?
‘I remember you were good at the rifle range,’ I say, finally finding my voice.
My phone bleeps and I glance at it. It’s a new message from the That Night group.
‘How come you were so good?’ I ask.
He gives the grin I have come to know so well and my heart flutters.
‘My dad holds clay pigeon championships at their country home in Berkshire. I did a lot of my practice at those. I’m not that good. A rifle range is easy. Don’t be too impressed.’
I list the evidence in my head as the waitress places our food in front of us. The lost Starbucks card, the ownership of Rommel Mansions, the rifle range, the handwriting analysis, and the fact that he was at Ark Morgan’s do.
‘What did you do that night after the Fun Palace?’ I ask, forcing myself to sound matter of fact.
‘Do?’ he says questioningly, looking straight into my eyes.
Did you go on to kill someone in Somerville Place I want to ask. Get it out into the open. I so need to know.
I discreetly pull my phone from my bag and check the message. It’s from Felix. Please let it say Hugh is the killer.
Felix: Hugh isn’t the murderer girlies. I hate to be the bearer of bad news. He was at a funeral in the Isle of Wight. And yes, I thought it was dubious, so I ran a quick check. Your little Felix has got contacts now. I was thinking I might go into this investigative business full time. Anyway, cut to the chase, there was a funeral and old Hughie did a reading. So … one of you is with the murderer right now because Clive Marsham wasn’t at the party. On the guest list but not at the party as he’s been in hospital for the past month with some mystery illness. Anyway, simply type RED and I’ll call the police. But be sure to have concrete evidence first. We don’t want them knowing we know until we do If you get my drift?
‘If I remember, I went back to a mate’s flat and had a few beers,’ he says casually, topping up our glasses.
He picks up his phone.
‘Hang on …’ he says looking closely at the picture. ‘I don’t believe it.’ He digs into his jacket pocket which hangs on the chair behind him.
‘You’re wearing the exact same earrings in that picture as this one.’
He pulls an earring from the pocket.
I choke as I fight back a gasp.
‘Are you okay Roxie?’ he asks, pushing a glass of water towards me.
‘What are you doing with an earring?’ I force a laugh and knock back the remains of my bubbly.
‘Don’t worry I don’t go around collecting them. Found this one in my mate’s flat. He got burgled, kind of.’
Burgled? Jesus, he really is the murderer. He killed his friend, which means he could just as easily kill me.
‘It’s a common earring,’ I say. ‘I bought them in Topshop.’
He stuffs the phone and earring back into his pocket.
‘I didn’t think it was yours,’ he smiles.
That’s just the problem. It is mine.
Sylvie
I’m seriously considering typing red when I remind myself that there are fifty or more flats in Somerville Place and Felix is right, we need concrete evidence before contacting the police, and Nigel living in Somerville Place is not concrete evidence. It’s a bloody coincidence though. It worries me that Roxie has read Felix’s message but not got back to us. I need to let Felix know I am okay, at least for the moment. I hold up my phone.
‘Sorry about this, it’s my gay friend, Felix, he’s got man problems.’
I quickly tap into WhatsApp.
I’m fine, I think. I’ll let you know if things turn sour. We’re on our way back to Nigel’s flat which only happens to be in Somerville Place. It’s not possible it’s 104 is it? Rox are you okay?’
I hit send and relax back in my seat. Of course it won’t be 104 and I won’t be typing red either. I really never thought I was the panicking kind but I’m bloody panicking now.
The cab turns towards the flats and memories of the three of us staking out the place come back to me. Then I remember what the old lady at 103 had said and I sigh with relief. Nigel is as far from a bum boy as anyone could get. By the time we pull up outside the flats I am feeling decidedly calm. I’d feel much better if Roxie would message back. If only Hugh could have been the damn murderer it would have made things so much easier. Nigel pays and then hooks his arm into mine.
‘I’ve got some DVDs you’ll love. I can’t wait to show you my collection.’
I laugh.
‘It’s usually etchings,’ I say, following him up the stairs. Each time we reach a landing I pray he will stop but we just keep on going.
‘Sorry about this,’ he says apologetically. ‘The lift seems to be permanently out these days.’
‘I know,’ I say and then bite my lip.
‘How did you know?’ he asks with a smile.
‘All blocks are like it these days, my friend had the same problem in her old flat too.’
Christ Sylvie, think before you speak. It’s not like it takes long.
‘I guess so,’ he says, opening a door leading to flat 104. I feel my legs give way and have to grasp the bannister to stop myself falling.
‘You okay Sylvie?’ he asks, putting his key into the lock of number 104.
‘I …’ I say, barely able to get my breath.
He takes my arm and leads me into the flat. I see the Buddha painting and then everything goes black.
Roxie: RED
Sylvie: RED
Felix: What the fuck?
Chapter Fifty-Five
‘How did you get out?’ I say hugging a whisky glass close to my chest.
‘I said Felix was cracking up and might do something stupid and that he has a tendency to be suicidal.’
‘Thanks for that love.’
‘I don’t believe it,’ I say, feeling quite suicidal myself.
‘You’re right not to darling. I’d never top myself over a man.’
I’m beginning to think I could. It’s all too awful for words. I finally fall in love with the perfect man, even my mum is happy and that isn’t easy to achieve, and now it turns out everything points to him being the murderer.
‘I mean, I don’t believe this situation.’
‘How did you make your escape?’ asks Felix. ‘Don’t tell me you told Sam I was suicidal as well?’
‘I said I didn’t feel well,’ I say, thinking back to my evening with Sam. He had been so caring and attentive when I’d said that I had a migraine starting. I’ve never had a migraine in my life. Mind you, I’ve got a thumping headache now. That will teach me to lie. He’d escorted me home and has sent two texts since. How can someone that caring be a murderer?
‘It can’t be both of them,’ says Felix, dipping two sponge fingers into my jar of Nutella. I can’t even face eating one. I feel sick with dread and disappointment. How can I be in love with a murderer?
‘After all, you didn’t see three men that night did you? Let’s look at the evidence,’ he says rationally.
It’s easy for him isn’t it? He’s not in love with one of the two suspects.
‘Hughie is out of the picture. Well, where the murder is concerned anyway. I’m certainly keeping him in the picture. I tell you, he really is …’
‘Felix, can we stick to the point,’ snaps Sylvie. ‘I really don’t think my nerves can take much more.’
‘Sorry, being a bit insensitive.’
Sylvie spoons out a large dollop of Nutella and sucks greedily on it.
‘You’d think it was cocaine the way you’re going at it,’ remarks Felix.
‘Nothing is numbing the pain,’ she complains.
‘Right, back to the evidence. First let’s look at Sam. Having an earring in his pocket isn’t that damning is it and …’
‘It matched mine,’ I say earnestly.
‘I know, but like you’ve said, they’re Topshop, and I imagine loads of chicks are wearing them …’
‘But how many chicks leave one in the flat?’ asks Sylvie.
‘Sounds like you want it to be Sam,’ I say angrily.
‘Well, I don’t want it be Nigel do I?’ she snaps.
I can’t believe Sylvie and I are arguing over a man.
‘He’s more likely to be the one,’ I say. ‘Don’t forget that he lives in the murder flat.’
‘He may have just moved there for all we know. He could be the new tenant after our one was murdered.’
‘We need to find the Where’s Wally scarf. We can’t do anything without more evidence. When is this play of Nigel’s?’ asks Felix.
‘It’s Saturday,’ says Sylvie miserably.
‘Okay great. You need to get Sam to go with you,’ says Felix, looking at me.
I nod.
‘You need to get another ticket from Nigel,’ he says turning to Sylvie. ‘It’s the best place to set a trap. A public place with plenty of people around.’
‘I’ve got four,’ she says. ‘I thought Roxie would want to bring someone, I just hadn’t bargained on it being the murderer.’
‘We don’t know it’s Sam,’ I say angrily.
‘We don’t know it’s Nigel either,’ she snaps.
‘We know it’s one of them,’ says Felix, shutting us both up. ‘I’ve gone through the guest list and there is no one else to check. Text Sam that you’ve got a ticket and ask would he like to go with you.’
Bloody bossy or what?
‘I wish you’d stop telling me what to do. In fact, I wish I had never told either of you about the murder. I should have gone straight to the police and …’
‘But you didn’t,’ interrupts Felix.
‘Well, I just know that Nigel couldn’t murder anyone,’ says Sylvie giving me a dirty look.
‘And I know that Sam couldn’t murder anyone and besides, if he had been wearing the Where’s Wally scarf at the Fun Palace I would have noticed.’
‘He was half naked,’ Sylvie reminds me.
‘Not at the rifle range.’
‘But we barely saw him, let alone his scarf,’ argues Sylvie.
Felix sighs.
‘Well one of them did it,’ he says patiently. ‘I’m not a gambling man but I would put my money on Sam Lockwood.’
We both gape at him.
‘Sam?’ I repeat hoarsely.
‘He does own Rommel Mansions remember?’
‘And that’s it?’ I say.
He shrugs.
‘We need to get his fingerprints on Saturday. Make sure you go for a drink during the interval. Sylvie, you’ll need to lift the prints from his glass and see if they match the Starbucks card.’<
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‘Are you telling me I’ve got to go to the theatre with a bag full of my stuff?’
‘If you want us to find out who the murderer is, and we’ll also need a sample of Sam’s handwriting. I’ve got a plan for that.’
I sigh.
‘It’s a night at the theatre, not a Paul Daniels show. She’ll be pulling a rabbit out of that bag too at this rate,’ I say miserably. ‘I don’t know why you’re accusing Sam anyway.’
‘Because he’s the most likely suspect from the evidence we have love. Anyway, on the night of the play we will nail who it is even if we have to set a trap.’
Chapter Fifty-Six
The sight of Sam in the foyer sends desire shooting through me. I’m beginning to think that even if he is the murderer it won’t stop me feeling the way I do. After all, love conquers everything doesn’t it? Okay, that’s probably a bit over the top romantic considering the situation. He waves as soon as he sees us and I have to stop myself bursting through the doors to get to him. I’d not seen him since the championship four days ago. He’s been texting me regularly, asking how the migraine is. Honestly, who has a migraine for three days? I’m surprised he didn’t think I had a brain tumour. Sylvie opens the door and I make my way to Sam and then freeze. Sylvie bumps into the back of me almost sending me sprawling.
‘Christ, sorry. It’s this ruddy great rucksack I’m carrying. You’d think I was on an expedition to Everest rather than a trip to the theatre,’ she grumbles.
I ignore her and groan, ‘Oh God.’
Sam is wearing the Where’s Wally scarf. That’s it then isn’t it? I’ll have to phone the police and put the man I love in the clink. It’s all I can do to hold back my tears. I’ve secretly dreamt of my Mr Right never believing I would ever find him. Now, here he is standing right in front of me and if he really is the man I saw pull that gun, then I really can’t have him. Life sucks doesn’t it?
‘Keep calm,’ whispers Felix. ‘You can’t be sure of anything yet.’
‘It’s the scarf, I recognise it. It’s too coincidental.’
‘Let’s wait and see.’
‘Hey,’ Sam says when I reach him. ‘Thanks for inviting me.’
He kisses me on the lips and I have to hold onto his arm to stop my legs giving way. Honestly, I’m useless. Just one kiss and I’d be forgiving him for genocide.