by Alice Castle
He did pass the time of day with old Len, though, who lived two doors down from him and who was always shuffling to or from one of Camberwell’s betting shops whenever they met. He made a mental note to spend a bit more time chatting with the man, maybe ask him if he needed help with his garden. From what York remembered, it was an informally curated outdoor installation featuring lager cans and fag packets from the last twenty years or so.
At the same time, he wondered who he was kidding. There was so much to do in his own unloved flat, with the rickety flatpack furniture he hated threatening to collapse any day like a pack of cards, and a sofa lumpier than cold school custard. Maybe he’d be found there himself in fifty – who was he kidding? forty – years’ time, impaled on a rusty spring, surrounded by a few sticks of MDF. But no, if he met his death in that place, it would be because one of his bookcases, filled three volumes deep with Golden Age mysteries, had fallen onto him. Few people knew of his addiction to Agatha Christie, Dorothy L Sayers, Margery Allingham, and her sisters in crime. Perhaps it would be a fitting way to go.
Just then, the old lady’s obscenely fat cat shouldered the front door open and sauntered off to its first taste of freedom for what looked like several weeks, at the very least. York shuddered. He certainly wouldn’t be offering to rehome that creature. As he watched, it sat down on its well-upholstered bottom and set to, giving its whiskers a much-needed sprucing.
This was what you got for not making proper human connections while you could, thought York. It wasn’t for want of trying. He’d had that girlfriend for, what, a few weeks, last year, and they’d even been on the abortive trip to Paris. But it hadn’t worked out. It wasn’t him, it was her, she’d said somewhat unconvincingly. Hanging around while he broke date after date, giving precedence to all kinds of low-lifes and criminals because that’s what he did, had not suited her one little bit. Dating another police officer was an option for him, though synchronising shift patterns would doubtless be a nightmare, and he just hadn’t met anyone he wanted to make that effort with down at the station. Since Paris, work had been so full on. And he had loads of books to read.
As the mortuary team trundled away with their burden, York chatted with the SOCO and turned to go. With a sigh, he realised he really was on a fast track to being eaten by his pet in fifty years’ time. Well, that was easily sorted. He’d never get a cat.
Just then, his phone went. With the gloves still clutched in his hand, he fumbled and didn’t reach it in time to answer. Peering at the screen, he saw it was Beth who’d called. He took a second to take stock. Head injury. No further information had come in about the attack. No witnesses. He’d got uniform to knock up and down the road. Nothing doing, but that didn’t surprise him. In Camberwell, hardly anybody saw anything, even in broad daylight. She’d been very lucky that her friend’s neighbour was on the case, though by the sounds of it he’d actually been a bit pissed off that she was in the way of his bins rather than playing the Good Samaritan.
As usual, she’d been asking for it, skulking around someone else’s garden in the night. Though it hadn’t been night exactly, more late afternoon. But still. That didn’t make it any better. Honestly, she seemed to have some sort of death wish. He’d never known an outwardly sensible, even respectable, young woman before with anything like her propensity to get into trouble. That wasn’t to say she didn’t have a nose. He was big enough to admit she’d helped him out on a couple of occasions now. She had the amateur’s conviction that there was always a solution, whereas he, dealing with this stuff all the time, knew full well that there were a vast number of cases that never even got close to being solved.
The Met’s clear-up rate was good, and God knew they dealt with the lion’s share of the crime going on throughout the country – and many of the most complicated cases, to boot – but there were limits. Not all murderers conveniently left a DNA-stained hanky at the scene of the crime, or even gave the talented amateur the kind of clue that made those 1930s plots, to which he didn’t mind admitting he was addicted, work with such well-oiled precision. No, that was one of the many reasons he loved his books so much. They gave him the neat finish that was so often lacking in life, with every loose end tied into a perfect bow, and the reputation of the sleuth further burnished by their amazing deductions. It was as good as catnip to a moggy any day.
And that brought his mind back to the present. He listened to Beth’s aborted message, while watching the old lady’s cat sauntering off into the distance, furry arse hanging low. He was sorely tempted to kick it. Hmm. No clue what she’d wanted. It had been nice to see her the other night. He hoped her head was ok. He’d ring her back when he had a minute.
Just as he formulated the thought, his phone vibrated again. He listened intently. It was information on one of the cases he had on the back burner, diligently relayed to him by a new member of his team who was showing promise.
‘Right. On my way,’ he said, pulled back to police business again. He stuffed the gloves into his pocket and strode off.
***
Beth, hunched at her desk, finishing off the last of her sandwiches and scrolling up and down the text of one of her panels for the new slavery display, knew she should print the thing out and proofread it that way. But she was being seduced into trying to check the text on screen. She knew perfectly well this didn’t work, and that typos galore would be gliding past an eye that had gone flaw-blind, but she was feeling too lazy to walk all the way over to the temperamental printer. And besides, she wanted to avoid Janice, Sam, and Lily, if possible. All three of them were definitely in deranged matchmaker mode. One she could have dealt with, but a trio was a pack and definitely best avoided. She had plenty to be getting on with here, out of harm’s way – the trouble was that, after her sleepless night, she just didn’t feel like doing any of it.
Talking to York about the Jen problem would have been the ideal displacement activity, but his failure to pick up had put the kybosh on that. Was there anything else she could usefully be doing? She quickly skirted the school firewall to see if there was any Christmas stuff she could order online. Ben had his eye on the latest upgrade to the PlayStation – some kind of Nintendo gizmo that promised to do just about everything except iron her shirts, for the price of a second hand car. She debated asking her mother and brother to chip in, and get it for him as a joint enterprise. It’d take some arranging, and she’d probably have to pay for it upfront and then attempt to recoup some money later. But that would be difficult with her mother, due to her impenetrable vagueness about everything except her last hand at bridge, and with her brother, too. Although he was generous to a fault, he was never in the country to ask.
She brought up the image of the Nintendo box on her screen. To her, it was yet another slab of plastic, festooned with annoying black wires, that would look horrible in the sitting room for a couple of years until it suddenly became obsolete. To Ben, no doubt, it represented not only an exciting bit of kit that he’d (hopefully) have before any of his friends, but also a million races with an Italian plumber, or endless chances to dodge bullets from an evil sniper. She hesitated over the ‘add to cart’ button. As if she could afford a cartful of this stuff.
She read over the description one last time, then realised that the astronomically expensive box she was foolishly considering paying way too much money for, didn’t actually come with any games at all. They had to be purchased separately, and weren’t cheap either. Right, that was it. She’d have to give it a lot more thought before she took the plunge, she thought, crossly shutting down the page.
Her phone rang, and for once, she was thrilled to pick it up as a distraction from her angry thoughts about manufacturers clever enough to make fortunes out of sheer tat. No Caller ID. Her heart beat a little faster. It was going to be York, ringing back at last. She took a breath. It was vital to sound casual, off-hand.
‘Hi,’ she drawled, leaning back, toying with her ponytail.
‘Oh, er, hello?’ It was a male voice
she didn’t recognise. She sat up straight.
‘Who’s that?’
‘Er, is that Beth?’
‘Yes, who’s calling?’ said Beth, tired of this game of hide and seek.
‘Oh, er, my name is, um Richard. I’m sorry, I don’t usually do this,’ he tailed off.
‘Do what?’ said Beth, baffled.
‘Well, I was given your number, um, and I was wondering… if you’d like to go for coffee?’ His voice sank away at the end, as though he was a balloon emptied of air, or as if someone had a gun to his head and was forcing him to get the words out against his will. She couldn’t remember ever receiving such a tentative invitation.
‘What? I’m sorry, who is this? Where did you get my number?’
‘Oh, well, it was my, erm, cousin, Jan. I think you might be work colleagues?’
Beth thought rapidly. Jan? Janice. What on earth was she up to? She’d had that odd smile on her face earlier. Beth had just put it down to a surfeit of pregnancy hormones, but she’d had this up her sleeve all along. Christ, she was going to kill her. Janice’d set her up.
‘Aha, yes, yes, we are indeed colleagues,’ said Beth, but maybe not for all that much longer, the way she was feeling now. ‘So, erm, you’re Janice’s cousin?’ It was Beth’s turn to be suddenly unsure. Should she go with her first instinct and slam down the phone and give Janice a piece of her mind, or was she going to play along with this? She took a deep breath. If she ducked out with an excuse, she’d not only hurt this harmless-sounding man, who’d clearly screwed his courage to the sticking-place to make this call, but she’d also have to face Janice’s inevitable wrath – more than a match for her own irritation.
‘That’s right. I think she thought we’d erm, well, be good together?’
Did she now? thought Beth crossly. Surely that was for her and this Richard to determine, together, without interference. Though admittedly they might never have met, left to their own devices. And it was still quite likely that they wouldn’t manage to make a sensible arrangement, unless Beth stepped up. Richard sounded even shyer and more retiring than she was.
‘Um, what did you have in mind?’ Beth said, trying not to sound quite as unenthusiastic as she felt.
‘Well, as I said, a coffee? You probably get a break at some point, do you?’
‘Oh, do you work round here?’ said Beth, instantly perking up. Going for coffee in the village was one of the things she did best, though generally it was with Katie or one of her very small group of friends. Like Jen, she thought with another stab of worry. But she supposed she could also have a coffee with a member of the opposite sex without too much drama ensuing. She and York had shared enough cappuccinos in the past, for goodness sake. This thought had its own little stab of pain, too, but for different reasons. And actually, it would serve York right if she went off and had coffee with someone else. He ought to return her calls more promptly.
‘Yes, yes, er, my office is, erm, not far,’ said Janice’s cousin Richard, somewhat elusively. ‘So, when would be good? Er, maybe next week sometime…’
Beth thought for all of a second. If she knew Janice, she’d be bursting into the room any moment now, demanding a full blow-by-blow account of their conversation. She could just imagine the tongue-lashing she’d be in for if she said they’d agreed to meet for twenty minutes in a week’s time. Might as well get the whole thing over with as quickly as possible and make sure she had at least a two-line story to tell.
‘How about now? Do you know Romeo Jones, in the village?’
‘Oh. Er…’ Richard sounded aghast. Beth immediately suspected he’d been put under huge pressure to make this call, and felt very sorry for the poor man. He probably had no real desire to meet her at all, and was just doing his own best to get out of a ticking off from the lovely but redoubtable Janice.
Beth remembered just enough about dating in the dark ages to recall that it wasn’t done to sound over-keen. She was willing to bet this was one thing that wouldn’t have changed a bit. She’d now given Richard the impression that she was a complete desperado by biting his hand off like this, but never mind. When it came to boils, she was heartily in favour of a nice, quick lancing, and she was always going to be the type to rip the bandage off on the count of one, instead of peeling away at the corners forever. Some chores you just had to do quickly, and this date definitely fell into the ‘get it over with’ category.
Half an hour later, having pressed save on her slavery documents yet again, and left a Post-It on her door with a wording so vague that even she wasn’t quite sure what she was up to or when she’d be back, Beth was stirring a large latte at Romeo Jones, the dinky deli. This tiny place was divided into two sections: a small front shop selling blisteringly-priced but wonderful foodie treasures; and a back area converted into a minuscule café, with four tables wedged into a boudoir-style décor, complete with pink flock wallpaper that Beth rather adored. If you peered with your head at an odd angle, you could see from the café into the shop, and vice versa.
Beth was wondering if she should have spent a bit more time in the loos at work, glamming up for this ‘date.’ As she’d brought no make-up with her, there hadn’t been a lot she could realistically achieve. Even at home, she wasn’t sure where her bag of tricks was lurking these days. Probably on one of the paint pots still in the hall.
She was down to a single swipe of mascara at the front door as she left in the mornings, from a tube that had definitely passed its sell-by. For those rare evenings when she went out, a bit of lip gloss had to do, and as for blusher, her sense of mild panic on social occasions sufficed to give her a hectic flush. Today, she’d just attempted to tame her hair with a brush from the bottom of her bag, had contemplated wearing it loose for two seconds, then bundled it back up into her habitual pony tail. No point giving this man any false expectations that she hadn’t the slightest intention of living up to.
As usual, she was sitting far too close to the counter, laden with all manner of delicious goodies, including the deli’s famous carrot cake, that she was manfully ignoring. She was trying to concentrate on the art on the walls instead. Today it was a display from local printmaker Julia McKenzie, weaving the undistinguished flora and fauna of south London, wily scavengers like foxes and magpies and opportunistic nuisances like nettles and couch grass, into magically beautiful kaleidoscopes. Beth was also trying not to stare too hard at the time on her phone. She’d allocated ten minutes, fifteen tops, to getting this meeting done and dusted. The seconds were trickling away.
‘Sorry, sorry,’ said a middle-aged man with thinning blond hair, bursting through into the deli’s little back room cafe. He looked around him wildly, eyes alighting on Beth, then sliding rapidly away again. Apart from two teenage girls with their heads together gossiping, looking as though they might be sixth formers from the College School out on licence, the place was deserted. His gaze came back to rest on Beth, eyebrows arching, colour mounting in his already ruddy cheeks.
Not a good sign, thought Beth. He almost looked as though he’d like to plonk himself down at one of the two remaining vacant tables and wait for someone better to turn up. Beth smiled in a slightly resigned way, and he seemed to accept the inevitable, scraping back the chair opposite her with a ‘may I?’ and holding out his hand.
His smart striped shirt strained a little over a comfortable tummy. Altogether, he looked like Paddington Bear in a suit, maybe after a few goes at a low-marmalade diet. He definitely wasn’t sex on legs, thought Beth brutally, but on the plus side he did look quite a sweetie. Then the briefcase in his other hand came down awkwardly, knocking the table and sloshing Beth’s latte everywhere. She grimaced a little as the hot liquid splashed her hand and very narrowly missed her phone. Honestly, could all this be any more embarrassing?
But ten minutes later, she had to hand it to Janice. She had a lovely cousin. That wasn’t to say Beth particularly wanted to extend their date, or try any more. It was just that he was an extremely
nice man.
Of course, being in his early forties, he had baggage swinging everywhere. Not just his wrecking ball of a briefcase, but also three children, who now lived mostly with their mother, his ex-wife. And his feelings towards the mother of his children were, to put it mildly, still very much at the complicated stage. Beth was a bit worried he was going to break down and blub at one point, as he explained that he still had no idea quite how things had gone wrong.
‘There must have been signs?’ she probed gently, cursing herself for her curiosity. As usual, her love of solving a mystery was overriding the strong sense that she should not get involved in this stranger’s life. If he’d gone through a whole divorce and was still really none the wiser about why things had hit the skids, then he was either terminally short-sighted, totally lacking in insight, or the only man in the country who really was married to a heartless bitch.
‘Well, I suppose, with the fact that Felicity worked away from home so much, she just had a lot of opportunity to meet other men. It was part of her job, as a saleswoman,’ he said, almost apologising for his ex’s faithlessness. Whatever the product Felicity was involved in marketing, Beth doubted she had to throw herself into the deal to get a sale. Maybe, just maybe, Richard’s abject attitude had driven her into the arms of, according to him, about eight different men in the space of as many years.
If she were Richard, Beth thought, she’d definitely want a bit of DNA-testing of the children before she forked out endless sums for their upkeep. But maybe she was missing the point. Richard, having all the childcare while Felicity was off ‘selling’, was no doubt firmly bonded to the kids, whatever their provenance. God knows, Beth wasn’t Magpie’s mother, but she still looked on her as a wayward furry baby to be looked after along with Ben. Magpie herself, of course, remained aloof at all times, and Beth sometimes wondered if the cat would even deign to pick her out of a line-up of humans if she wasn’t holding a sachet of the cat’s ridiculously priced gourmet dinner.