The last word, p.15
The Last Word, page 15
‘Did she mention being wary of Imogen Blythe?’ asks Liv.
‘Not again,’ says Edwin. ‘ I was about to ask her about Imogen when Imogen herself turned up. But, as Benedict says, there didn’t seem to be any animosity between them.’
‘And did Sue seem well in herself?’
‘I think so,’ says Benedict. ‘She complained of hay fever. That was all.’
‘What about Peter Abbot’s “potentially suspicious conversation”?’ asks Liv, her voice putting fastidious quotation marks around the words.
Benedict blushes. ‘I overheard him talking on the phone. He said, “There’s not much time. We have to be brutal.”’
‘Did you ask him what that meant?’
‘No. How could I? He didn’t know I’d overheard.’
‘Which of the guests knew Sue from previous courses?’ asks Sam.
‘Imogen and Leonard, the tutors,’ says Benedict. ‘And Frances too, I think. Frances mentioned knowing Malcolm too.’
‘Johnnie Newton?’
‘I can’t remember but she’d been on a few previous courses. It’s possible they knew each other.’
Liv says, in a casual voice, that immediately puts Natalka on alert, ‘Were there any animals at Battle House?’
‘Animals?’ Benedict looks at Edwin. ‘There was a cat I saw a few times. I think it belonged to the farmhouse.’
‘And the dog that breathed all over us in the car,’ says Edwin. ‘Buster, his name was. He belonged to Georgina Potter-Smith.’
After a few more questions, Liv thanks them for their help and says she’ll be in touch.
‘Are any of you attending Sue’s funeral on Friday?’
‘Benedict and I will be there,’ says Edwin.
‘So will we,’ says Liv. ‘But we’ll have to be discreet. Keep your eyes open.’
They have lunch in a Hastings pub, a lopsided building full of twisted beams and secret staircases, where the floor is so uneven that your glass slides across the table. Natalka loves English places like this. She has a ploughman’s lunch and a lemonade, because she’s driving. Benedict and Edwin both have half pints of beer. They discuss Liv and Sam.
‘Liv reminds me a bit of Harbinder,’ says Natalka.
‘Sam said something on Sunday night about her being Liv’s heroine,’ says Edwin. ‘I expect she’s a real role model for women on the force. Especially women of colour,’ he adds, in the slightly nervous tone he reserves for this phrase, hoping it’s the right one.
‘Who do you think they suspect?’ asks Benedict, cutting into the crust of his steak-and-kidney pie. The smell stops Natalka wanting to eat her ploughman’s. She pushes her plate to one side.
‘I think Liv was suspicious of Imogen,’ says Natalka. ‘She mentioned that thing about being wary of her.’
‘I can’t see Imogen as the murderer,’ says Edwin. He keeps saying this. It makes Natalka feel curious about the woman who led the course. Imogen Blythe’s Facebook page shows a thin wispy creature, not a likely killer, but she’s a crime writer which must mean that she’s thought a great deal about means and motive. The Peggy Smith case taught Natalka not to underestimate authors.
She says, ‘They dismissed any connection with books and writing but I think that’s the key. Malcolm was going to write about a murder but then he died – even if it was from natural causes. Sue took over and she was killed. That has to be the link. It’ll be interesting to see what your flute player has to say, Edwin.’
‘Flautist,’ says Edwin. An unnecessary correction, in Natalka’s opinion. ‘And it’s his son. But, yes, it will be interesting.’
Natalka’s phone buzzes. She guesses before she looks at the screen.
‘Minnie.’
‘What does she say?’ says Benedict.
‘The same as always. “Any news?”’
‘Well, we do have news,’ says Benedict. ‘Are you going to tell her about Sue?’
‘I don’t see why not. I mean, it’ll be in the papers soon.’
Natalka texts. ‘Yes. Are you up for a chat?’
The answer comes back immediately. ‘Can you come to Harmony’s house this afternoon?’ A map reference follows.
‘Interesting,’ says Natalka.
Natalka drops Edwin at his flat and Benedict at the Shack. Then she pops home to change into more comfortable clothes. She put on black trousers and a white shirt to impress the police officers and now feels too hot. Valentyna is sitting on the sofa, still in her scrubs.
‘Are you going out again, Talia?’
‘Yes. I’ve got a bit of detecting to do.’ Natalka looks at her mother. She looks tired but Natalka knows that a change of scene always perks her up. ‘Want to help?’
‘Me?’ Valentyna jumps to her feet immediately. ‘Help with detective work? Just give me ten minutes to shower and change.’
Mother and daughter drive to Steyning, under the flyover, horses grazing unconcernedly, then along country roads, hedges on one side, foaming with cow parsley, fields on the other. As they near the village they pass an abandoned cement factory with monstrous towers and rusting machinery.
‘Why don’t they knock that down?’ says Valentyna.
‘You know the British,’ says Natalka. ‘It’s probably a listed building.’
She has often wondered this herself. Harbinder’s friend Clare lives in one of the smart houses nearby. What must it be like to live with that nightmare edifice in your back garden? Natalka suspects that Clare, an annoyingly self-possessed headteacher, hardly notices.
In Steyning, Natalka parks behind the High Street and gives Valentyna her instructions.
‘Go into the pharmacy. It’s just through that alleyway there. Ask to see the pharmacist. He’s called Alan Franklin. Ask for him by name if necessary. Say you’re having trouble sleeping and see what he recommends.’
‘Do you suspect him of something?’ asks Valentyna, wide-eyed.
‘Other people suspect him,’ says Natalka. ‘I just want to see whether he’s a bit free and easy with prescriptions. Or if he offers you something dodgy. Be pathetic. See if you can push him.’
‘I can cry if you like,’ offers Valentyna. ‘I’m good at acting.’
‘Go for it,’ says Natalka. She has never heard her mother make this boast before.
Natalka sits in her car listening to Lizzo and ignoring the parking attendant who keeps walking slowly past her. After ten minutes, Valentyna is back.
‘I saw him,’ she says. ‘I thought he was very charming.’
‘Did he offer you sleeping pills?’
‘He said he was reluctant to give them, except as a last resort. He suggested a milky drink before bedtime and not looking at my phone too much.’
This sounds like good advice – Natalka knows she spends too much time doom-scrolling on her phone – but it doesn’t help with finding out whether Alan Franklin killed his wife. Natalka can just imagine Minnie’s reaction. ‘Well, of course he’d say that. He’s diabolically clever. Can’t believe you fell for it.’
‘I’ve got a visit to make,’ she tells Valentyna. ‘Would you mind waiting in the car?’ It doesn’t scream ‘modern detective’ to turn up with your mother in tow.
‘Why don’t you leave me here,’ says Valentyna, ‘and pick me up afterwards? There are some lovely shops. Even a bookshop. I could buy a present for Benedict.’
‘OK,’ says Natalka. ‘I don’t think I’ll be more than an hour.’
Harmony and her husband Patrick Skelton live in a terraced house on the outskirts of Steyning. It’s very pretty and obviously decorated with great care but you could have fitted the whole ground floor into the kitchen of the house where Alan Franklin is now living, or Minnie’s place in Brighton, for that matter. Patrick is apparently an ‘entrepreneur’ and Harmony is a science teacher. Patrick is out but Harmony says she does supply work and can be flexible. The couple have no children.
They sit in the courtyard garden next to a water feature and a perfectly positioned statue of a nymph. Natalka recognises it from Harmony’s Facebook page. She worries about being overheard but this doesn’t seem to be a concern with the sisters.
‘Have you found anything on Alan yet?’ asks Minnie. She is wearing exercise clothes and looks as if she has a lot of pent-up energy. She would be pacing if the backyard were big enough. As it is, she contents herself with scuffing gravel.
‘I’ve got a contact in the police,’ says Natalka. ‘I checked and he’s never been convicted of any crime. There have never been any complaints against him as a pharmacist either.’
‘That doesn’t mean he’s innocent,’ says Minnie, predictably. ‘It just means he’s cunning.’ Natalka doesn’t tell her about Valentyna’s visit to the pharmacy. ‘He’s probably got another woman by now,’ Minnie adds. ‘He’s that type.’
‘You said you had some news,’ says Harmony, rather hastily.
‘Yes. Remember I told you that Edwin and Benedict my . . . er . . . associates . . . went to Battle House at the weekend?’
‘Minnie told me,’ says Harmony. ‘I went there with Mummy once. Funny old place.’
‘It seems so,’ says Natalka. ‘A woman called Sue Hitchins was killed there on Sunday.’
Harmony puts her hand in the vague area of her heart. ‘Killed?’
‘She drowned,’ says Natalka. ‘The police are investigating.’
‘What’s that got to do with Mummy?’ says Minnie, single-minded as ever.
‘Sue was in a relationship with Malcolm Collins,’ says Natalka. ‘I think he was one of your mum’s friends?’
‘Malcolm?’ Harmony knits her brow. ‘Oh, the journalist. He died last year, didn’t he?’
‘He did,’ says Natalka. ‘Though I read an obituary written by him the other day.’
‘I think they write those things years in advance,’ says Minnie. ‘And they don’t always get the facts right. Mummy’s obituary said I was forty-five.’
‘But do you think this Sue’s death could be linked to Mummy’s?’ says Minnie.
‘It’s a line of investigation,’ says Natalka.
‘Well, it shouldn’t be,’ says Minnie, taking another turn around the statue. ‘We’ve told you what happened. Alan Franklin killed our mother and now he’s squatting like a toad in her house.’
It’s an arresting image. Natalka remembers Dmytro finding a toad in their uncle’s allotment. The creature had been oddly beautiful. She notices that Harmony is looking rather troubled. Now she says, with a nervous look at her sister, ‘There is one thing . . .’
‘What?’ says Natalka, leaning forward. ‘Any little thing could help.’
‘Was Leonard Norris at Battle House? When the woman was killed?’
‘Yes,’ says Natalka. ‘Do you know anything about Leonard Norris?’
‘Only that I think he had an affair with Mummy,’ says Harmony.
Chapter 20
Edwin: the youth project
Edwin starts out quite jauntily on his trip to see Ivan Marshall, son of Felix the Flautist. He takes a taxi to Shoreham-by-Sea station, changes at Brighton and gets one of the fast trains to Victoria. He even buys a Private Eye, to read alongside Leonard Norris’s novel, The Hopes and Fears of All the Years. He’s looking forward to being in London. It’s his happy hunting ground, the place where he lived for thirty-odd years before moving to Brighton. Then he had prided himself on knowing every Tube and bus route, he knew which Underground stations had too many stairs and when it was just easier to walk. It was on foot that he knew the city best: the antiques shops around Shepherd’s Market, where high-class prostitutes walked tiny dogs on leads, the drinking dens of Soho, the secret parks and graveyards.
But, when he emerges from the train, he finds Victoria station quite changed. There are shops everywhere and banks of ticket machines, interspersed with strange circular seating areas. Edwin has trouble finding his way to the Underground. He descends the steps, clinging tightly to the rail (it’s been raining and the ground is slippery) to find a solitary ticket machine whose display reads ‘Out of Order’. Edwin looks around and eventually locates a man in Transport for London uniform.
‘Excuse me, where can I buy a ticket to Oxford Circus?’
‘Use your card,’ says the man. ‘It’s contactless.’
‘My card?’ repeats Edwin. But the man has moved away to help a woman with a pushchair. Does he mean a travel pass? But Edwin doesn’t have one. He stands, hopelessly, as better-informed passengers stream past him.
‘Can I help you?’
‘Er, yes,’ Edwin replies nervously. This man is not an official. He’s young – almost a youth – with tattoos and multiple piercings. Is he about to mug Edwin? But, terrifying as he is, tattooed boy is the only person offering assistance.
Edwin says, ‘I’m trying to get through the barrier.’
‘Use your card.’
‘What card?’
‘Your debit card.’
Edwin gets out his wallet and finds his Barclaycard.
‘Wave it at the machine,’ says the youth.
Edwin does so but nothing happens. Impatient commuters divert on either side of them.
‘Give it here.’
Edwin is amazed to find himself handing over the precious piece of plastic. Is this how the mugging is about to happen? But the young man waves the card at the barrier and, as it opens, hands it back. ‘You can go through now.’ Edwin walks forward, too flustered even to thank his saviour. How does the machine know how much to charge him when it doesn’t know where he’s going? Is this how he’s going to be robbed today? In a contactless, digital way? But there’s no time for questions and no one to give him any answers. Edwin continues on his way to the Victoria Line.
The walk seems endless, many more tunnels and escalators and meaningless walkways than Edwin remembers. He’s exhausted by the time he gets on the train. Even the Tube map looks different because the Elizabeth Line has been added. Edwin has read about this new route in the papers and knows it’s opening next month. What else will have changed? Edwin sits upright in his seat, scared to open his book in case he misses his stop.
Edwin gets out at Oxford Circus, tapping his debit card nervously at the barrier, and, after initially taking the wrong exit, heads for Portland Place. His old Radio 3 entrance, topped with the now-controversial Eric Gill statue, is closed for repairs so he walks around the corner to the impressively curved façade of Broadcasting House, recognisable from countless self-referential TV programmes. In the reception area Edwin submits to having his photograph taken for a security pass. When it arrives, it shows a scared-looking old man in a pink bow tie. Edwin hangs the lanyard around his neck without looking again. Then his lightweight backpack (a present from Natalka) is passed through something like an airport scanning machine. Edwin imagines the X-ray image of his book, notepad and indigestion tablets. There’s evidently nothing to alarm the bored-looking attendant who attaches a purple tag and hands the bag back to Edwin.
He takes a seat on a long sofa beneath a huge TV screen showing rolling news. A seemingly endless stream of humanity passes in and out of the revolving doors. Rolling news, revolving people. Edwin is starting to feel slightly dizzy. What if no one comes to claim him? But a few moments later someone is saying his name. A large red-faced man is standing on the other side of the security gates.
‘Edwin? I’m Ivan Marshall. Do you want to come through? Just wave your pass at the reader. No, that way. A bit higher. Hang on, I’ll ask the receptionist to let you in.’
Eventually Edwin, slightly ruffled, is in the lift with Ivan. There’s not a lot of space and Edwin keeps his eyes fixed on Ivan’s security pass. It was taken when he was a lot thinner.
But Ivan is very friendly, considering he doesn’t know Edwin from Adam. He gets coffees for them both and they sit in Ivan’s office. Its glass walls show people hurrying to and fro, intent on the business of news. Edwin feels a stab of nostalgia for the days when he was one of the worker ants with his own security pass and a file full of interview notes.
‘So you were a friend of Dad’s?’ says Ivan.
‘Yes. I knew him in my BBC days,’ says Edwin. At least, if Ivan checks, Edwin’s name will be in the annals somewhere. ‘I was so sorry to learn that he’d passed away.’
‘Yes, it was a shock,’ says Ivan. ‘Even though he was a good age. We just thought he’d go on for ever, living in that Kensington flat that was far too big for him, having lunch at the same restaurant every day, playing his flute for the grandchildren.’
‘He was a great musician.’
‘He really was. Decca are bringing out a CD of his early recordings.’
‘So it was a shock when Felix died?’
‘Yes, it was. My sister, Henry, had seen him the day before and she said he was on good form. He was even learning a new piece.’
‘I read the Guardian obituary,’ says Edwin. ‘It said that Felix died with his flute in his hand.’
‘Yes, the coroner thought he was actually playing it when he died. What a way to go, eh?’
‘Definitely the way he would have wanted it,’ says Edwin. ‘The obituary writer was Malcolm Collins, another old friend of mine. Did you ever meet him?’
‘I don’t think so. No.’
‘Was it your sister who . . . er . . . discovered the . . . found your dad?’
Ivan gives Edwin rather a keen look. Is this going too far, even for a supposed old friend?
‘It was Margot, his cleaner,’ says Ivan. ‘Did you say you were writing a book about Dad?’
‘About my days at the BBC,’ says Edwin. He is so taken by this cover story that he can almost see the book. Music to My Ears by Edwin Fitzgerald. A tastefully blurred image of a piano and an old-school microphone.
