by M B Vincent
‘Sir.’ Rupert stood up and shook the Judge’s hand.
Jess rolled her eyes, both at the ‘Sir’ and the handshake. They were like an etching of Outdated Male Behaviour. ‘Dad’s being uncooperative,’ she said, folding her arms. Harriet had folded her arms around the Judge. A lot. ‘Doesn’t seem to realise he’s next on Norris’s hit list.’
‘I understand the need for caution,’ said the Judge. ‘But all this fuss.’ He shook his head.
Jess would have liked to read the riot act to her father. She would have liked to tell him that she needed him to be there forever, to be a constant compass point, her true north. That she might look like a mature woman but inside she was the trusting, needful little girl who had leaned back on his legs and traced the blue flowers on the golden rug and felt safe because he was simply there. Instead she said, ‘You’re being selfish, Dad. As usual.’
Rupert said, ‘It’s a pain, but I’ve been involved in cases where police tech saves lives. It’s hellishly expensive, as well. Eden will be spending a huge proportion of his budget on Harebell House.’
‘Hmm,’ said the Judge. He was listening. It was an attentive ‘Hmm’, not the one Jess heard when she started banging on about stone circles.
‘If you fall into line, the cases wrap up much more quickly. Less wear and tear on police overtime, less expenditure.’ Rupert smiled. It was his lawyer smile, not the wide disfiguring one he used around Jess. ‘But you know all this – you’re part of the machinery of justice.’
The Judge didn’t say Rupert was right, or that he agreed; Hell was not about to freeze over. Instead he said something vague about having ‘a word with the chaps’ and made his way to the kitchen.
‘No need to thank me,’ said Rupert.
‘That’s so crap,’ said Jess. ‘He won’t listen to me, oh no, but a penis walks in and bam! He’s all ears.’
‘I like to think I’m a little more than a penis,’ said Rupert.
‘Thanks,’ said Jess. She said it like an accusation. She tried again. ‘Seriously. Thanks, Rupert.’
‘I don’t need thanks.’ His sudden swerves into sincerity always caught Jess off guard. ‘I need you to tell me if you’re all right.’
‘I’m not,’ said Jess, surprising them both. ‘All these motion sensors and intruder alarms make me feel less safe.’ She hugged herself in her worn-out, bobbled PJs. Jess knew that Norris could still reach them. He had the nerve and the animal cunning to slide like a snake right under their defences.
‘This house is probably the safest address in the county right now.’ Rupert moved a step closer.
‘Nowhere’s safe,’ said Jess. Danger would find a way. David – she named it, she named the sad thing in the woods – had breached death to breathe on her neck.
‘Jess, c’mere.’
As Rupert held out his arms, Jess took a step back.
The doorbell sounded. She was saved from having to explain. Which was just as well, because she couldn’t.
‘Just checking in.’ Eden stamped his feet on the welcome mat.
***
Forcefed a sandwich by Bogna – ‘Look at you, Mr Eden, you’re walking dead isn’t it’ – he broke up the party in the kitchen, sending his men to their posts. ‘I just met with Louise Mannix,’ he said to Jess and Rupert in the lamplit drawing room.
‘Must have been hard,’ said Jess.
‘She’s a strong woman, but yes. The two little boys . . . they’re twins,’ said Eden.
‘All the victims,’ said Jess, over Rupert who was saying something about how dreadful it was, ‘are fathers!’ That felt important. She felt awake suddenly. ‘That matters! Norris is depriving other children of their dads, putting them through his own pain.’
‘Surely it’s simpler than that.’ Eden didn’t clamber onto her bandwagon. ‘It’s revenge, Jess.’
‘What if it isn’t revenge?’ Jess never trusted the simple answer. ‘What if it’s more subtle than that? Norris might choose somebody else, not Dad, for his next victim. Shouldn’t we warn fathers?’
‘That’s a broad demographic,’ said Eden. ‘How can I protect every father in the area? It’s your father we’re concentrating on. After all, it’s Judge Castle who’s been sent warnings ever since Norris got out of prison. He’s saving him ‘til last.’
‘Moretti’s not completely convinced,’ said Jess. ‘He has suspicions about Gillian Cope.’
‘And he’s wrong,’ said Eden. Wearily. Warily. ‘I don’t trust Moretti. He has a direct line to Phillips’s office.’
The disloyalty of telling tales to the D.I. had shocked the entire police station; Jess knew Moretti would be getting the coldest of cold shoulders. She’d heard the crew in the kitchen mention his name with distaste.
Eden left. Rupert went. The house hunkered down for its siege.
Jess looked at the spot on her wall where the map used to be. She thought about all the fathers she knew and wondered if Norris was playing a game of misdirection.
Like Thor who played tricks, and then steamed in with his hammer, leaving bodies in his wake.
Rupert was safe. No little Ruperts running around. Stephen! His twins put him in danger, as did Eddie’s Rob.
As she was drifting off, she thought of the new father in town. Mitch, superdad to his three girls.
Mitch, she thought, wondering why her mind snagged on him.
Mitch, she thought again, the superdad who hadn’t been in the house when Zinnia woke up in the middle of the night. She remembered the little girl’s recrimination.
‘You weren’t there! I looked all over.’
With hindsight, that had been the night Timothy Wong was torn apart.
CHAPTER 12
SUNDAY LUNCH
Sunday 8 November
Sundays are so reliable.
A full stop to every week, the Lord’s day is designed for leisure and contemplation.
Or, in Harebell House, it’s designed for Bogna to rise at dawn and start the ritual preparation of the Sunday roast.
Slouching around the dining room, setting the table, Jess envied the Sunday lunch deniers, those heathens who lay in until noon. It felt farcical to be hauling out Harriet’s beloved tureens and the wedding present silver, when the entire house was at the eye of a murder storm.
‘Are you . . .’ The Judge appeared, Moose at his heels. ‘You’re not. Here, Jess. Put this on.’ He held out a synthetic poppy. ‘It’s Remembrance Sunday, Jess.’
Jess pinned the poppy to her black jumper. ‘I totally forgot.’
‘Easily done,’ said the Judge, rearranging the glasses on the drinks cabinet. His only domestic chore was supervision of Sunday lunch gin and tonics. ‘Only a generation of men mown down to save civilisation, after all.’
‘Very potent, the poppy.’ Jess knelt and leaned against Moose. He leaned back. Mutually supportive. ‘Hypnos, the Greek god of sleep, carried a vial of poppy juice with him. Long before the First World War, they already signified sleep, and death.’
‘The longest sleep of all,’ murmured the Judge, slicing a lemon with the ineptitude of a man who is hardly ever called upon to slice anything.
‘Poppies are big business these days. Opium, made from poppies, helped finance the Afghan war. So, in a way, the poppies we use for remembrance are responsible for the deaths of British soldiers.’
‘You do like to spoil things, Jess.’
Something smashed in the kitchen. A Polish exclamation. Jess carried on; they were accustomed to Polish exclamations. ‘Poppy seeds were thought to confuse the mind. Pagans strewed them around to confound evil spirits.’
‘Nothing confusing about Remembrance Sunday.’
‘The Castles aren’t great at remembrance,’ said Jess. ‘If David died a hero’s death in a war, and not fallen off a horse, we might talk about him now and then.’
The doorbell saved her father from answering.
***
It unfolded the way of all family get-togethers. First
one guest arrived, then another. Coats were hung up. Cheeks kissed. Soon the Judge was doing a roaring trade in gin, Moose was overexcited, and the twins had spilt something on something else.
There was chatter, there was laughter, there was Iris on the sofa in burgundy velvet. Diamonds hung around her neck like raindrops. Holding out her hand for one of the Judge’s ‘whoppers’, she downed it with an arch ‘Chin chin!’ for Jess.
There was collusion in the outdated phrase. Both of them were ambivalent about such gatherings.
But my aunt’s better at hiding it.
Stephen shook hands with Josh, gave Jess a brotherly punch on the arm. Called his father ‘Sir’. Voiced a hope that beef was on the menu.
His wife, in her uniform of leggings and baggy top, told Jess, ‘You’ve lost weight.’
‘I haven’t, Susannah,’ said Jess. ‘I never do.’
‘Don’t be so down on yourself!’ Susannah wore an enamel poppy.
The Judge commented approvingly on the brooch. Then frowned at Susannah’s sweatshirt. It was embroidered with the words ‘Shine brite like a star’. ‘One has to literally read women these days,’ he said.
Only Iris and Jess heard. Susannah was too busy telling nobody in particular about how fat her thighs were.
When Rupert walked in, tall, rubbing his hands, nodding hellos, Susannah made no comment about his BMI. She took his arm instead, and talked at him of the twins’ accomplishments, while his eyes sought out Jess.
She saw the panic in them. She smiled. He crinkled back. The empathy, taken for granted, thawed Jess.
‘Look what I found in the hall!’ laughed Mary. She and Patricia Smalls made an unlikely duo. One in a velvet maxi she’d found in the attic, the other in flammable separates. A pleat. A court shoe. A lacquered helmet of – what colour is Patricia’s hair? thought Jess. Was it apricot or baby sick?
The old family joke about Patricia wangling her way into their Sunday lunches would have to be retired; she’s legal now, thought Jess.
Mary sat on Rupert. His slight embarrassment pleased her immensely, and she drew Jess’s attention to it. ‘C’mere,’ she said, leaping up and yanking Jess down onto Rupert’s knee. ‘Keep me place warm.’
‘You have,’ said Jess to Rupert, ‘a surprisingly comfy lap.’
She felt supremely awkward, and utterly at home. Rupert’s face was very near. This close she could see the many greys and blues that went to make his awfully English eyes.
‘Your hair’s untidy,’ she said. His thick hair had a life of its own.
‘I came straight from Edinburgh.’ Rupert flattened his cowlick.
‘You’re keen,’ said Jess. From another woman that might sound flirtatious.
‘I’d go a very long way,’ said Rupert, ‘for Bogna’s beef.’
They laughed.
‘Wahey!’ yelled Stephen, raising his glass. ‘Get a room you two!’
Jess scrambled up. She was red. Not a nice soft shade. Full-on ketchup. She could feel Susannah’s eyes upon her, willing her to ‘have a word’ with Stephen.
Filling the room like the drone of an organ fills a cathedral, Patricia fussed around the judge.
‘You’re looking well, James. We were all so worried.’ Patricia stuck out her bottom lip to underline how very worried we’ all were. ‘It was a major operation, after all.’
A brisk figure, hair askew and apron bolted on, slapped down a tray of blinis. ‘No need to worry, Ms Small,’ said Bogna. ‘Judge is well looked after.’
‘Is he, though?’
The woman has a death wish, thought Jess. Only a strange bleat from the garden saved Patricia. Bogna hoofed it out of the room to tend to whatever had made the sound.
‘How does it feel,’ asked Iris languidly from her throne, ‘to have two women fighting over you, James?’
‘Hardly that.’ The Judge turned the same colour as his daughter.
Patricia leaned down to Iris and spoke loudly and clearly. ‘Are we comfy?’
‘I am. I can’t speak for you,’ said Iris.
‘Maybe another cushion?’ Patricia pulled one from behind Rupert. ‘Do we need to put our feet up? You need to look after yourself at your age.’
‘I was up at dawn for my yoga class.’ If Iris’s voice had been any more icy, she could have chilled her gin with it. ‘When I put my feet up, Patricia, I hook them behind my ears.’
Patricia retreated with the cushion. Like Moose, who still widdled in the hall, she was slow to learn.
Mary attempted to high-five Iris.
‘Don’t be silly, dear,’ said Iris.
Mary high-fived herself. ‘You’re so feckin’ cool, anty,’ she said.
Jess, reaching for a blini, stood on something that turned out to be Baydrian’s hand. Why is he always on the sodding floor? she thought, relieved to pass the writhing child to Susannah.
‘Shush, darling, oh shush!’ Susannah tried to contain the bag of cats that was her son. ‘Be nice.’ She shot anxious looks at the others, as if they might judge her mothering and find it wanting. ‘He never cries,’ she fibbed.
‘I cry all the time.’ Mary fished the lemon out of her drink. ‘You’re grand, Baydrian. Let it all hang out, son.’
‘Have you lost weight?’ Susannah put her perennial question to Mary.
As an answer, Mary slapped her bottom and declared that Susannah should never trust a woman ‘who can’t survive a month on her own bum fat’.
Susannah laughed uncertainly and rounded on the Judge. ‘What do you want for your birthday?’ She spoke to the room in general, a woebegone look on her face. ‘Poor old Daddy-in-law, being born on the nineteenth of December! Just before Christmas. It’s so cruel, everyone’s busy!’
‘It’s a blessing,’ said the Judge. ‘It means nobody notices and that’s just the way I like it.’
‘I think,’ said Susannah, eyes glittering, ‘we should throw a huge party! In the orangery! Invite the whole of Castle Kidbury!’
‘We’ll see.’ This was Judge-Speak for I’d Rather Eat my Own Feet.
Hunger took hold. The guests were restless. Jess’s tummy sang a short aria.
‘Bogna, can we sit?’ she called towards the kitchen.
‘We’re not all assembled yet,’ said the Judge.
‘Ooh, who’s late?’ Mary’s eyes widened. ‘Who has the nerve?’
A voice in the hall. Deep. Not British. Then other squeaky, screamy voices.
Bogna ushered in Mitch and his three hangers-on.
Mary looked at Jess.
Rupert looked at Jess.
Jess stuck out her tongue at them both.
Mitch set the room a-twitter. Partly because he was something new in Castle Kidbury’s limited gene pool. Partly because, Jess suspected, he always set rooms a-twitter.
Definitely not smart enough by Castle Sunday lunch standards, he was a crumpled denim counterpoint to his chintz surroundings. The dark suspicions that had flowered a couple of nights ago disappeared – pop! – in the brightness of the room. Wherever Mitch had been when Zinnia couldn’t find him, it wasn’t in a Jolly Cook killing Timothy Wong.
Susannah pulled in her tummy. The Judge shook Mitch’s hand. Patricia covered her distaste at the little girls’ wellies.
Iris said, ‘Mitch, darling,’ and turned her cheek so he could kiss it.
‘You know each other?’ Jess was so surprised, it was rude.
‘Aren’t I allowed to make friends without your input?’ asked Iris.
‘Yeah, well, s’pose, whatever.’
‘Nicely put,’ said Rupert. He introduced himself to Mitch. They had a manly conversation about which route Mitch had taken before Mary butted in with, ‘Jaysus, he came on a road, in a car, shut up the pair of youse,’ and shoved them both towards the dining room.
Magic had happened. A gravy boat had docked alongside dishes of Brussel sprouts, cauliflower cheese, and – Jess almost had a noisy orgasm – roast potatoes with crusty edges, all flecked with sea salt.
>
‘You sit there.’ Bogna was a Napoleon. ‘And you go there.’ She took Rupert by the shoulders and set him down. ‘No, no, Patricia,’ she barked, smiling for the first time that day. ‘Jess sits at head of table, isn’t it.’
Taking the ceremonial seat, Jess held up her glass for the Judge to make the toast.
‘You do it today,’ he said, and all eyes turned her way.
‘This should be good!’ said Josh.
Jess’s mind went blank. She tried to remember what the Judge usually said. Instead, unbidden, a Viking salutation found her tongue. ‘From the gods to the earth to us!’
‘From the gods to the earth to us!’ the others cried.
‘Jess makes heathens of everyone,’ said Iris, sending her niece one of her deadly twinkles.
‘It’s the toast Vikings made during Blotmonap,’ said Jess. ‘They—’
‘Nobody cares, pass the gravy,’ said Mary.
***
The meal, so eagerly anticipated, was over. The beef had been carved. The potatoes were history. One of the Judge’s best reds had done the rounds.
Mary, lips jammy with Barolo, led the exodus back to the drawing room, where she threw herself on a sofa.
‘Nic Lasco,’ said Jess, pushing Mary up to make room, ‘has nothing on Bogna.’
‘I respect cow, and cow does best for me.’ Bogna directed traffic from the middle of the rug. ‘You go there, Susannah and kiddies. No, Josh, please sit on pouf. You there, my lovely girlies.’ She approved of Mitch’s waifs. ‘You, Mitch, beside Rupert.’
Jess savoured the men’s reluctance to share a velvet loveseat. ‘Bogna assumes you’ll get on, just because you’re men.’
‘You both have a Y chromosome,’ said Mary. ‘Ergo you can chat about cars and football.’ To Jess she said, in a lower voice, ‘You don’t like it, do you?’
‘Like what?’
‘When we get out of our boxes and walk around and interact. You like to keep all your people to yourself.’
‘I suppose,’ said Jess loftily, ‘an armchair’s the right place for armchair psychology.’
Baydrian was at the window. ‘More policemen and a policelady!’ he yelled, delighted.