A Corpse Called Bob

by Benedict Brown

  I chose not to answer.

  “One. Only one.”

  “Was she deaf?”

  “You tell me, Izzy. She’s sitting here with me now.”

  I let out a sigh, as much for his previous dates as for Dean himself. “I’m sorry, but it’s hardly surprising. When I asked what you did, you told me I wouldn’t understand. Maybe you should change your approach a little?”

  The waiter reappeared, made a bear-like moan and put our drinks down in front of us.

  Dean picked up his coke and drained it through the straw in one long suck. “I am what I am. My mother says I should always be myself.”

  “Good advice. And do you still live with her?” I raised both eyebrows accusingly, completely ignoring the fact that people who live in their mothers’ glass houses shouldn’t throw stones.

  “Actually I don’t. I have my own apartment. I’m a surprisingly thrifty saver, Izzy, which is just one of the things you’ll learn about me as we get to know each other.”

  I might have made an involuntary shudder.

  “And what about you?” he asked.

  “What about me?”

  “I don’t see you settling down with your one true love. How many second dates have you had?”

  “I’ve had plenty, thank you. They just weren’t to my taste.”

  “Maybe you should change your approach a little.” The nerviness which had characterised him on our previous encounter was gone. The arrogance which replaced it was no more attractive.

  “Seriously?” I swirled the unnecessary ice cubes in my orange juice. “You’re the one who had to use blackmail to get me here.”

  “What are you talking about?” His voice spiked higher, like a teenage boy’s.

  “Oh come off it. You know the only reason I’m here is because you’re my alibi.”

  His jaw sank, the rest of his face curled up and he stared at me angrily. “You really thought I was going to withdraw my statement if you didn’t come?”

  “It crossed my mind, yes.”

  He stood up angrily. “Fine, enjoy your chicken salad – which is a terrible choice by the way – alone!”

  He was about to walk off when the zombie-waiter brought two plates filled with breadcrumb-coated goodies. Dean looked back and forth between the food and the door before I finally took pity on him.

  “Just sit down. I’m sorry I thought badly of you.”

  “You should be.” He plucked a bunch of onion rings from the plate and chucked them one by one into his mouth in a simplified game of hoopla. “There’s a lot worse out there than me.”

  “Sadly, you’re right.”

  He gave me another hard stare and returned to his place to consume his deep-fried snacks. When there were only a few malformed cheese melts left, he prepared himself for more conversation.

  “So, did you do it?”

  “What?”

  He took a pallet-cleansing slurp on his newly delivered milkshake. “Kill your boss?”

  “No, of course not.”

  “I don’t care if you did.”

  “I was with you at the time he was murdered, idiot.”

  “Doesn’t mean you weren’t involved. You could’ve been using me as a cover story whilst your accomplice did away with him.”

  “I wasn’t.”

  “Doesn’t matter. It wouldn’t have been my worst date.”

  The rest of the food arrived and I tucked into my gourmet selection.

  “Go on then. What was your worst?” My mouth was full so I probably managed a lot less consonants than that.

  “A woman once told me there was no way she was going to spend a whole evening having to look at me and that she’d report me to the police for breach of the trade description act.”

  He’d made me laugh. “Ouch. Still, she had a point. Your profile is a little flattering.”

  “Thankfully the police didn’t think so. They gave her a warning for wasting their time.”

  I laughed. He was still just as weird as on our last date. He still avoided eye contact as much as possible, like everything he said was a lie, but he could do a much better impression of a human being than I’d imagined.

  “Why do we bother trying?” I tossed a carrot baton in my mouth. “This whole thing is such a nightmare.”

  “Personally, I have a weird fetish for sitting in front of women and talking to them.”

  “Psycho.”

  “What about you?” he asked. “What depths have you plumbed?”

  I swallowed a chunk of chicken.

  “Oh, you know, the usual stuff. It’s not often that I make it to a date night as so many guys just want to send me naked photos. There was one guy who told me, half way through a meal, that he collected women’s wigs and that, if I thought it was strange, we should call it a night.”

  “Classy. What did you say?”

  “In my defence it was a really nice restaurant and I got the impression he was paying.”

  “You stayed?”

  I nodded, smiling at the bad memory that had long since become a funny story.

  “And did he pay?”

  “Nah, they rarely do.”

  “So you’d prefer it if we did? I get nervous eating in restaurants with my parents because I’m not sure who should get the bill. With women I’m a mess.”

  “In an ideal world, I’d have enough money and it wouldn’t be an issue. But I’m twenty-nine and still live with my Mum because my job pays barely enough to rent a storage container, so I wouldn’t say no.”

  “Izzy Palmer of West Wickham, I’m gonna make your dreams come true tonight. The chicken salad’s on me.”

  “What a gentleman.” This conversation had been conducted with ketchup and mayonnaise covered fingers which I now attempted to clean off, almost extracting a serviette from the dispenser with the ball of my hand before giving up and licking my hands clean. “Now will you tell me what you do?”

  He pushed his glass away and looked around for our waiter. “You wouldn’t understand.”

  “Just when I was beginning to think you were capable of polite conversation.”

  He didn’t smile. “I’m not being arrogant, my job is very technical.”

  “I didn’t ask you to teach me how to do it. Just tell me what it is.”

  “I work with computers at a company that produces surveillance equipment.”

  “There you go. That wasn’t too difficult. Plus telling me you work with computers has the added bonus of me not wanting to ask any more questions. Try that with the next girl you see and you won’t have to hope that her boss is murdered to secure a second date.”

  “And here’s me thinking my search for love is over.”

  After the meal, he paid as promised and we said good night. Despite his psychotic clothes, anti-social personality and general weirdness, it was the best date I’d been on in months.

  Chapter Five

  Bob’s murder was on the local news that night, but the report didn’t tell me anything new. There was an appeal for information from the police and shots of our office block. Standing outside the No. 1 Croydon building, a towering, stack of fifty pence pieces where Porter & Porter had its headquarters, the reporter wore a solemn expression on his face as he signed off.

  “A real tragedy that no one could have expected in a place like Croydon. This is Haider Jairaj for BBC London.”

  The next morning, my dear, departed boss made it into the national papers, though only to page nine in the one I looked at. It was a tatty little piece, basically a write up of the TV report with some added interviews with unnamed members of staff who described how popular Bob had been. I can’t imagine who they spoke to. Maybe it was the team of Romanian cleaners who come every evening and stand apologetically up against the wall with their buckets and hoovers as we march past them on our way home.

  I read the paper on the tram into work. It felt strange to be going back. I dreaded seeing my colleagues who had been so quick to believe my guilt and had th
rown their insults about to wound me. But having spent the day before feeling like a child bunking off school, staying home was not an option.

  I needn’t have worried about going back. If there’s one thing guaranteed to normalise, anesthetise and lobotomise away any drama it’s working in finance. I walked to the office, walked into the office, walked into the lift, walked out of the lift and it was as if nothing had changed.

  There was still the constant workplace soundtrack of copiers and telephones, low-level chatter and tapping keys. My workmates buzzed about, few raising their eyes to greet me for another day at the grindstone. Someone dropped their coffee and a short burst of mockery and applause rose up then died away, like the clatter of fallen cymbals. If it weren’t for the blue and white X in police tape across Bob’s door I might have believed I’d imagined the whole thing. I half expected him to come bursting through it to scream at Ramesh for being too slow and faggy with his work.

  I sat down at my S-shaped workstation with my deskmate Suzie on the other side. She made a purring sound to acknowledge my arrival but didn’t look up from her screen.

  “Morning, Suze,” I said, as cheerfully as I could manage.

  She chirped in reply, her eyes darting at me for the briefest of seconds as I powered up my computer.

  “I need a drink, do you want one?”

  She let out a squeak of polite refusal and I headed off to the breakroom. I was immediately seized and escorted over by my excitable best friend.

  “Bloody hell, Izzy. Bluh-dee hell!”

  Ramesh guided me to a free table and was about to start in on his interrogation when Wendy stormed over. Somewhere between forty and seventy, she had one of those faces that was impossible to make any sense of. Her beige knitwear was twinned with a bright pink skirt with kittens on.

  “I’ve got my eye on you.” She looked me up and down, as if searching for proof of my guilt. How could anyone resist her grumpy charm?

  “Only one?” I checked.

  She poked her glasses back up her nose. “I don’t care what anyone else says. I reckon you’re just the type to have killed Bob.”

  “The feeling’s mutual, love.” Her nemesis Ramesh stepped in to stick up for me.

  Offended by the mere sound of his proudly metrosexual voice, Wendy launched herself into one of her trademark rants. “You young people think it’s all such a joke, with your polyamorous relationships and your bath salts. I suppose murdering your boss is a bit of a laugh by today’s standards but I’m having none of it.”

  The conversation was already off the rails, so I figured that one stupid question couldn’t hurt. “Wendy, could you leave us alone, please? I need to talk to my friend.”

  “Huh!” She looked at me like I’d suggested she buy me lunch. “I’ll leave you alone… when you’re locked up where you belong.”

  She walked back over to her usual group of gossips and stirrers and recounted the whole conversation for their pleasure.

  Even this interruption couldn’t smother out Ramesh’s joy and he was soon back on topic. “You do realise this is the most extraordinary thing that has ever happened at Porter & Porter.”

  “Well I hope it is.” I fished in my bag for a coin for the coffee machine.

  “Why did it have to be the morning I had a dentist appointment? By the time I got here, Wendy was telling everyone that you were a Stalinist.”

  “A Stalinist?”

  “Yeah.” He paused before delivering the punchline. “She thought it meant devil worshiper.”

  “Close enough.”

  Ramesh grabbed both my hands in his like we were starting our own prayer circle. “Please tell me you killed Bob!”

  My best friend’s love of drama clearly outweighed his belief in law and order. The light brown skin around his deep brown eyes was all crinkled up as he awaited my response.

  “You’re the one who told the police I was on a date when he died. Which is why I’m here today, as free as a sparrow.” I went over to the machine to get an extra sweet hot chocolate.

  “Oh what a let-down.” His voice died away and he peered about at the other tables in the breakroom. “It’s so strange to think that the killer could be here with us right now.”

  I dug my tea stirrer into the little gap between my two front teeth as I took in the faces of our colleagues. “I doubt we were the only people Bob annoyed. We can’t be sure the killer even works here.”

  “Ha, that’s where you’re wrong.” Perking back up again, Ramesh could hardly control his excitement. “I know something you don’t.”

  I gave him a look which said, go on, get on with it.

  “Okay, but you’re going to pee your pants.” He allowed a few seconds of silent suspense. “Whoever killed Bob, stole the CCTV footage!”

  “And?”

  “Oh, come on, Izzy. The hard drives were behind a fingerprint scanning security door. Only five people had access.”

  A little surge of joy ran through my brain.

  Five suspects, how very Agatha Christie.

  “Only Jack in security, members of the board and the head of I.T. could have done it,” Ramesh continued but I was already way ahead of him.

  “David, Amara, Jack, Wendy and…”

  “And me,” he said with a grin. He was enjoying this far too much.

  I have to admit I was getting pretty excited myself. “That means we’ve got a twenty per cent chance of identifying the killer right from the start. And there’s no way you did it.”

  “I could have!” He pretended to be offended.

  “Not a chance. You’re too sweet. You once refused to recycle a magazine with Jennifer Aniston on the cover because you felt sorry for her.”

  “How dare you, Izzy. I hated Bob as much as anyone. I could absolutely have done him in.” He cast his eyes to the floor.

  “Fine. Where were you on Wednesday night?”

  A smile instantly broke out across his face. “I was at home watching trash on telly.”

  I let out a tired sigh. “Any witnesses?”

  “Well, I skyped my girlfriend for a while but apart from that, only Elton and Kiki can confirm I was at home.”

  “I’m not sure the courts accept the testament of cats, but I believe you.” I knocked back the dregs of my drink and recycled the cup.

  “Great, so what’s next?”

  It had been fun for a few minutes but he should have known not to indulge my Tommy and Tuppence fantasy. “Ramesh, we’re not the police. We can’t investigate this.”

  Accidently tipping his chair over, the drama of his sudden rise to standing was lost. He compensated by angrily waving a rich tea finger at me.

  “We’re the only ones fit to investigate.” At least he was whispering so that Wendy couldn’t hear. “We know everything that goes on here.”

  “Have you been talking to my mother?”

  “I’m fabulous and you’ve read just about every detective novel ever written.” He made some good points.

  “Yes but this is real life. Whoever killed Bob could come after us.”

  “Don’t you see that this could be our moment? What can you say you’ve achieved that’s more important than walking through that door yesterday?”

  I didn’t have an answer. His eyes were locked on mine and I couldn’t look away. At some point this had gone from being a joke to something he really cared about.

  “I can’t do this without you.” His expression remained serious.

  I resisted for maybe five seconds then picked up my phone and sent him a text. You know, to be subtle.

  Fine, we can look into it. But don’t let anyone else know.

  He was still looking sad when the buzzing came through to his pocket. I was amazed he managed to hide his emotion as he wrote out his reply.

  Woooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooo! You won’t regret it.

  I bought a second hot chocolate to take back to my desk and we said our goodbyes.

  As the Assistant Data Analyst’s A
ssistant, my job mainly involves proofreading documents or looking over long lists of names for obvious duplicates, spelling mistakes and typos. I am fully aware that there is software out there that could automate most of what I do but luckily Porter & Porter is an old-fashioned company and my best friend is in charge of I.T.

  Dan Phillips, the data analyst himself, is some sort of genius and works from home. He communicates with me by single line e-mails that never require a reply. Technically Suzie is his assistant and I’m hers which means I really don’t have to know anything whatsoever about algorithms or data mining or any of the other clever things that they do. My work requires about one per cent of my brain function, leaving me plenty of time to daydream.

  Jones, Dennis. 55 Cranley Grardens, SW4 5TQ

  Jones, Dennis. 32 Blenheim Court, CR0 3RY

  Jones, Derek. 6 St. James’s Way, SM5 3BW

  “Hi, Izzy. How are you doing?” Bob’s co-deputy director Amara had popped up beside my desk. I love Amara and, if she turned out to be the one who killed Bob, I’d happily be a character witness at her trial. There’s something so inspiring about her. She’s not only the first female executive in the history of Porter & Porter, she’s a dedicated mother to two phenomenally photogenic children and, from what I hear, a whiz on the tennis court.

  I made a sad face because I like it when she’s sympathetic. Even though her family are originally from Ghana and she’s only about ten years older than me, I like to imagine sometimes that she’s my mum.

  Weirdo.

  I’m not weird. You are!

  “How did they treat you at the police station?” Amara was still there and I still hadn’t said anything.

  “It was fine.” I nodded my head and pursed my lips together because I think that’s how normal people act.

  “Well if there’s anything you need, you only have to ask.”

  “Thanks, Amara. But really, I’m doing all right.”