The Postscript Murders: A Mystery

Prologue

THE TWO MEN have been standing there for eighteen minutes. Peggy has been timing them on her stopwatch. They parked on the seafront just in front of Benedict’s café. A white Ford Fiesta. Annoyingly she can’t see the registration but, if she uses her binoculars, she can see a dent on the nearside door. If they have hired the car, the company will have taken a note of this. Peggy makes a note too, getting out her Investigation Book which is cunningly disguised as A Seaside Lady’s Diary, complete with saccharine watercolours of shells and fishing boats.

There are several reasons why Peggy finds the men suspicious. They look out of place in Shoreham-by-Sea, for one thing. Sometimes, just for fun and to keep her observational powers honed, Peggy makes an inventory of people who have walked past her window.

MONDAY SEPTEMBER 3RD 2018 10AM–11AM

7 x pensioners: 2 couples, 3 singles

1 x man on roller skates, 30s (too old)

4 x singles with dogs: 2 x collie crosses, 1 x pug, 1 x doodle (NB: people always remember dogs)

Woman, 30s, smartly-dressed, talking on phone

Man, sixties, carrying black bin-liner, probably homeless

4 x cyclists

2 x male joggers: one fit-looking, one looking on verge of collapse

1 x unicyclist (probably from Brighton)

The men outside her window do not fit this pattern. They are not cycling, jogging or accompanied by dogs. They are not pensioners. They are probably mid to late thirties, with short hair, wearing jeans and short jackets, one blue, one grey. What would young people call them? Bomber jackets? An ill-starred name if she ever heard one. The men look similar because of the way they’re dressed but Peggy doesn’t think that they are related. One is much darker-skinned than the other and built differently, compact rather than wiry. She doesn’t think they’re lovers either. They don’t touch or look at each other. They aren’t laughing or arguing—​the two best ways to spot if people are a couple. They’re just standing there, maybe waiting for something. Occasionally, The One In The Blue Jacket looks up at the flats but Peggy keeps back behind her curtains; she’s very good at disappearing into the background. All old people are.

At first she wondered if the bomber jackets had driven over espe­cially for Benedict’s coffee, which is excellent, but the men don’t move towards the Shack. There’s an alertness about them that Peggy finds most troubling of all, and they both have their backs to the sea. Who comes to Shoreham beach and doesn’t even glance at the shimmering water, looking at its very best today, dotted with sailing boats and accessorised with seagulls? But the crop-haired duo are facing the road and Seaview Court, the block of retirement flats where Peggy is currently lurking in a bay window. There’s no doubt about it. The men are waiting for something. But what?

At 11.05 precisely Blue Jacket takes out his phone and speaks to someone. Grey Jacket looks at his watch which is a chunky thing, visible through her binoculars even at a hundred yards away. The two men confer and get back into their car. The Fiesta pulls out into the road and Peggy leans forward to get the registration number.

GY something. Is that a one or a seven? She needs to go to the opticians and get her prescription changed. Then the car stops just outside her window. Peggy leans back into her curtains which are loosely woven cotton. So loose that she can see through the weave. It’s a little blurry but she thinks that one of the men is leaning out of the window taking photographs. Of Seaview Court. The Fiesta revs up and it’s gone.

11.07

1

Natalka

The Linking Words

SHE KNOWS IMMEDIATELY that something is wrong. It’s not anything tangible, the post is neatly stacked on the half-moon table, the flat is silent apart from the sound of seagulls mugging someone outside, the art-nouveau clock ticks serenely, set in its stainless steel sunset. But somehow Natalka knows. It’s as if the molecules have rearranged themselves.

‘Mrs Smith?’

She tries the Christian name too, although Mrs Smith is not one of the cosy ones.

‘Peggy?’

No answer. Natalka pushes open the sitting room door. The air hums with something like electricity, as if a device has been left on, but Natalka knows that Mrs Smith turns the radio on for The Archers at two and then off again at fifteen minutes past. She can’t stand the Afternoon Drama. ‘Full of self-obsessed people talking about their lives. That or time travel.’ It’s now six o’clock. Time for the evening call, to help clients get ready for bed. It’s insultingly early for bed, of course, but Natalka has five other clients to see so what can she do?

She enters the room. Mrs Smith is sitting in her armchair by the bay window. She likes to look out to sea and even has a pair of binoculars to spot rare birds with or, Natalka suspects, spy on passing ships. But she’s not looking at anything today. Mrs Smith is dead. Natalka knows that even before she checks the pulse and notes the half-open mouth and misted eyes. She touches the old lady’s skin. Cool but not cold. Natalka makes the sign of the cross in the air.

‘Rest in peace,’ she mutters as she dials the number for Care4You.

‘Patricia Creeve.’ The boss is in. Miracle.

‘Mrs Smith is dead.’ Natalka doesn’t believe in wasting words.

‘Are you sure?’ Nor does Patricia.

‘No heartbeat.’ In moments of crisis, Natalka often forgets prepositions and connectives. All the linking words.

‘I’ll come over,’ says Patricia. ‘God rest her soul.’

It’s an afterthought but Natalka doesn’t think any the worse of her boss for it. It’s going to be a long night.

NATALKA SITS ON the sofa to wait for Patricia. She would never just sit down in a client’s house, unless they specifically wanted a chat and Peggy wasn’t exactly the chatty sort. She was always polite but she knew that Natalka had a job of work to do and a limited time in which to do it. Now it feels odd to be sitting doing nothing, facing the silent figure in the chair which is angled to look out over the sea. Natalka gets up and walks to the window. There’s the wide blue sea with white-tipped waves and seagulls circling in the paler blue above. It’s a picture postcard view, if you don’t look to the right and see the power station and the sinister trawlers with Russian names. Suddenly Natalka realises that she has her back to a corpse. She also has the strangest feeling that she’s being watched. She spins round but Peggy hasn’t moved. Of course she hasn’t, Natalka tells herself. Peggy is dead. She’s not about to start dancing a mazurka. One floor below, Natalka hears a door open and shut. Then there are heavy footsteps on the stairs and Patricia is in the room. Natalka had left the apartment door on the latch.

Natalka gestures towards the chair and Patricia comes over. She takes Peggy’s hand with professional detachment but her eyes look sad.

‘She’s passed away,’ she says.

Passed away. It’s an English phrase that Natalka has never really understood. It sounds ethereal, ephemeral, something half seen and then forgotten. Clouds pass over the sky. But death is for ever.

‘Did you call an ambulance?’ says Patricia.

‘No,’ says Natalka. ‘I mean, I could see she was dead. What do you think it was? Heart attack?’

‘Probably. How old was Peggy?’

‘Ninety,’ says Natalka. ‘She was very proud of it. We had a little party for her at Benedict’s café.’

‘She was good for her age,’ says Patricia.

‘There are pills by her chair,’ says Natalka. ‘Perhaps she forgot to take them.’

‘Perhaps, but probably she just passed away in her sleep. It’s a good way to go,’ Patricia adds, patting Natalka’s shoulder kindly.

‘I know,’ says Natalka.

‘I’ll call the undertaker,’ says Patricia. ‘They’ll send a private ambulance.’

She has the undertaker on speed dial. Of course she does. While Patricia talks on her phone, Natalka approaches the body—​Peggy—​again. It’s only about fifteen minutes, but she’s changed. She’s no longer Peggy; it’s as if there’s now a wonderfully lifelike statue of an old woman in the chair. Her skin has a waxen quality to it and the hands, clasped in Peggy’s lap, look like they’ve been drawn by an artist. Who was it who drew praying hands? Dürer? Natalia is relieved that Patricia has closed Peggy’s eyes.

‘Rest in peace,’ she says again.

‘You should go home, Natalka,’ says Patricia. ‘This must have been a horrible shock for you. Take tomorrow morning off too.’

This is quite a concession. There are never enough carers at Care­4You and Natalka is usually being asked to do extra shifts. The thought of a lie-in is intoxicating.

‘Have you told Peggy’s family?’ she says. ‘I think there was a son.’

‘I’ll look.’ Patricia is consulting Peggy’s file, which she’s taken from the half-moon table. The clients all have them, carers have to write in the dates and times of every visit: Toileted, gave meds, all well.

‘Here it is,’ says Patricia. ‘Next of kin: son, Nigel Smith. There’s a mobile phone number too.’

While Patricia telephones, Natalka turns back to Peggy. She looks at peace, that’s what Patricia will say to Nigel. Passed away peacefully. There’s a book open on the arm of Peggy’s chair. High-Rise Murder by Dex Challoner. Peggy’s binoculars are on the table beside her. There’s also a pen, completed crossword and a pill dispenser, the sort that has the days of the week on it. There’s something else too, a piece of paper just poking out from under the crossword. Natalka slides it out. It’s a business card, very official, with black, curly writing.

Mrs M. Smith, it says. Murder Consultant.

2

Harbinder

Panda Pop

DS HARBINDER KAUR is working late. She doesn’t mind particularly. If she goes home, her mother will only start talking to her about internet dating (‘It’s the latest thing. There’s even a special Sikh What’s Up Group’) and her dad will rant about politics. At least here it’s quiet. No Neil, DS Neil Winston, her partner—​or ‘work husband’ as he sometimes cringe-makingly calls himself—​brushing imaginary crumbs off his desk and doing those irritating bicep curls, as if every second not spent in the gym is time wasted. No Donna, her boss, DI Donna Brice, bringing in her weekly shop and complaining about the price of Pringles. Empty, the CID room feels orderly and manageable. Harbinder completes her last batch of filing and mentally awards herself a gold star. ‘Best Gay Sikh Detective in West Sussex’, first out of a field of, well, one. Still, a gold star is a gold star. What should she do now? Wash out the coffee cups? Water the drooping spider plants? Phone Clare and catch up with the latest straight gossip? Go on Twitter and become disgusted with the world? Play a round or two of Panda Pop? Surely this last is the best use of her time. She actually gets out her phone and is about to click on the game when the intercom buzzes.

‘There’s a woman down here for you. Says she’s got something to report.’

‘Really?’ This sounds potentially interesting. ‘I’ll come down.’

The woman waiting in reception, surrounded by old copies of Police Monthly, is not what Harbinder is expecting. She’s young, for one thing, with blonde hair pulled back into a ponytail. And, when she speaks, it’s obvious that English is not her first language. She’s very fluent but she has a light, intriguing, accent. Young, foreign women do not often come into the police station at Shoreham-by-Sea.

‘I’m Natalka Kolisnyk,’ says the woman. ‘I’m not sure if it is right to come here.’

‘Come into my office,’ says Harbinder. ‘And we can talk about it.’

Harbinder takes Natalka into Donna’s office. She regrets saying it was hers when she sees how untidy it is. Also, Donna has got one of those awful cutesy calendars with babies in flowerpots. Natalka sits in the visitor’s chair and tells Harbinder that she’s twenty-seven and works as a carer for a company called Care4You in Shoreham. ‘Zero hours,’ she says with a grimace, ‘no benefits, no travel allowance.’ Harbinder nods. Shoreham is full of elderly people, many of whom need care in their homes. It’s no surprise that those who provide the care are poorly treated and paid the minimum. Natalka, though, doesn’t look as if she’s on the breadline. She’s dressed simply in jeans and a white T-shirt but her trainers are expensive Allbirds. Harbinder always notices shoes.

‘I have a client at Seaview Court called Mrs Smith,’ says Natalka, looking around the room with undisguised interest. Harbinder hopes she doesn’t notice the flowerpot babies. She knows Seaview Court, it’s sheltered housing, right on the seafront overlooking the beach.

‘She was called Peggy,’ says Natalka. ‘Peggy Smith. She died two days ago. It was very sad but not a surprise. She was ninety. It could have happened any time. But today I helped clear up her flat. Her son is coming tomorrow and he wants everything in boxes. He wants to sell quickly. He’s that type.’

Harbinder nods again. She knows that type too.

‘The son, Nigel, asked me to start with the books. Mrs Smith had many, many books. All about murder.’

‘Crime novels?’

‘Yes. You know, man kills woman. Or woman kills man. Sometimes it’s that way round. Not so often, though.’ She smiles, revealing excellent teeth, white and even. ‘And the detective solves it on the last page.’

‘Yeah that’s how it works in real life too,’ says Harbinder. ‘Always.’

‘Well, I started putting the books in boxes. Then I got bored and started to read bits of them. Then I noticed something.’

‘What?’ says Harbinder. Natalka is obviously trying to string the story out but Harbinder is in a tolerant mood.

‘They are all written to her. Mrs Smith.’

‘Written by her?’

‘No.’ Natalka clicks her fingers, trying to come up with the word. ‘They are written to her. To Mrs Smith, without whom . . . et cetera, et cetera.’

‘Dedicated to her?’

‘Yes! Dedicated to her. All these murder books are dedicated to her. Isn’t that strange?’

‘I suppose so. Are they written by different people?’

‘Yes, lots of different people. But lots by Dex Challoner. He’s famous. I googled him.’

Harbinder has heard of Dex Challoner. He’s a local author and his books are piled high at every bookshop in the country. They seem to feature a private investigator called Tod France who doesn’t look like any PI Harbinder has ever met.

‘And they’re all dedicated to this Mrs Smith?’

‘Some are. Some just mention her in the back pages, you know.’

‘The acknowledgements?’

‘Yes. Thanks to Mum and Dad. Thanks to my publishers. And thanks to Mrs Smith.’

‘I wonder why.’

‘I know why,’ says Natalka, with the air of one putting down a winning hand. ‘Mrs Smith is a murder consultant. I found this. It was on the table next to her chair. The chair she died in,’ she adds, with what seems like unnecessary relish.

Natalka puts a small white card in front of Harbinder. Sure enough, in small Gothic print it says, Mrs M. Smith. Murder Consultant.

‘Murder consultant?’ says Harbinder. ‘What does that mean?’

‘I don’t know,’ says Natalka. ‘But it’s suspicious, isn’t it? A woman dies and then it turns out that she’s a murder consultant.’

‘We need to find out what it means before we decide if it’s suspicious,’ says Harbinder. ‘And why does it say M. Smith? I thought you said her name was Peggy.’

‘Peggy is sometimes short for Margaret,’ says Natalka. ‘English names are odd like that.’

‘I am English,’ says Harbinder. She’s not going to let Natalka assume otherwise, just because she’s not white.

‘I’m Ukrainian,’ says Natalka. ‘We have lots of strange names too.’

Harbinder thinks of Ukraine and a series of ominous images scrolls through her head: Chernobyl, the Crimea, Ukrainian airline crash. She wonders whether Natalka will prove similarly bad news.

‘How did Peggy Smith die?’ she says.

‘Heart attack,’ says Natalka. ‘That’s what the doctor said. I was the one who found her. She was just sitting in her chair by the window.’

‘So no sign of anything suspicious?’

‘I didn’t think so at the time. Nor did my boss. But now I’m wondering. I mean, how do you know what’s suspicious and what isn’t?’

‘That’s a good question,’ says Harbinder.

SHE THINKS ABOUT this conversation on the drive home. On the face of it, a ninety-year-old woman dying in her chair does not seem particularly suspicious. But maybe the mysterious Natalka (mysteriously attractive Natalka) is right. Maybe they should look below the surface of things. It does seem odd that an elderly lady should be mentioned in so many books. And ‘murder consultant’ does have a very sinister ring to it. Harbinder tells her phone to ring Clare. She’s still old enough to get a buzz out of hands-free stuff. Her nieces and nephews take it all for granted.

‘Hi, Harbinder.’ Clare’s voice—​confident, slightly impatient—​fills the car. ‘What’s up?’

‘Have you ever had a book dedicated to you?’

‘What?’

‘You read a lot. You teach creative writing. Has anyone ever dedicated a book to you? For Clare, without whom this book would have been finished in half the time.’

Clare laughs. ‘No, I’ve never had a book dedicated to me.’

‘Not even Henry’s?’ Clare’s boyfriend is a Cambridge academic.

‘I might get a mention in the acknowledgements of the new one, I suppose.’

‘Would you think it was odd if someone, quite an ordinary person, had lots of books dedicated to them and was mentioned in lots of acknowledgements?’

‘Unless they were a copy editor, yes.’

‘What does a copy editor do?’

‘Are you thinking of going into publishing? A copy editor checks a manuscript for mistakes, names changing, timelines going wrong, that sort of thing. Then a proofreader checks it again. Except they don’t seem to use proofreaders as much as they used to.’

Could Peggy Smith have been a proofreader? It’s possible, she supposes. It sounds like the sort of job a retired person might do. But the card hadn’t said ‘proofreader’. It had said ‘murder consultant’.

‘What’s all this about?’ says Clare. ‘Are you going to come over? I’ve made pasta. There’s loads left.’

‘Sounds tempting,’ says Harbinder, ‘but I should be getting home. See you soon. Love to Georgie and Herbert.’

It’s nearly ten o’clock by the time that Harbinder parks in the underground garage near her parents’ house. She still thinks of it like that although she lives there too. Sometimes she says to herself, in suitably shocked tones: ‘Harbinder Kaur was thirty-six years old, unmarried, and still lived with her parents.’ If she read that in a book, she’d lose all sympathy with the character. Mind you, Harbinder doesn’t read that sort of book. But, apart from a brief period when she’d shared a flat with other police cadets, she has lived in the flat above the shop all her life. In some ways, it suits her very well. Harbinder actually enjoys her parents’ company and it’s nice having someone to cook for you and generally look after you. But there are other drawbacks. Her parents don’t know she’s gay, for one thing.

She had hoped that the house would be quiet. The shop shuts at nine-thirty, her mother will probably be dozing in front of the TV, having left Harbinder something delicious warming in the oven. Her father will be getting outraged about the evening news and Sultan, their dozy German shepherd, will be nagging for his last walk. But, as she climbs the stairs, she can hear voices talking in Punjabi. Oh no, her parents must have friends round. How did two such sociable people produce a daughter who prefers Panda Pop to humanity?

‘Here she is,’ says Harbinder’s mother, Bibi, as if Harbinder is the final act in a variety show. ‘Here’s Harbinder at last.’

The two women at the table look as if they were expecting a more exciting special guest. Harbinder recognises them vaguely from one of her infrequent visits to the gurdwara.

‘How are you, Harbinder?’ says one of them. Amrit? Amarit? ‘Still with the police?’

No, Harbinder wants to say, I’m carrying these handcuffs for a bet. ‘Yes,’ she says, in English. ‘I’m still with the police.’

‘Harbinder’s a detective sergeant,’ says Harbinder’s father, Deepak. ‘She works very hard.’ Deepak is standing in the doorway with Sultan and looks a bit as if he wants his kitchen back.

‘Have you got a boyfriend?’ says the other woman. Honestly, what is it with old people? Why do they feel that they can ask questions like this?

‘I’m waiting for Mr Right,’ says Harbinder, between gritted teeth.

‘How old are you now?’ says Amrit beadily. ‘Thirty-eight? Thirty-nine?’

‘I’m forty-six,’ says Harbinder, adding ten years to her real age. ‘I look good on it, don’t I?’

‘She’s only thirtyish,’ says Bibi hastily. ‘Are you hungry, Heena? I’ve kept some food for you.’

Harbinder would love to storm upstairs and go straight to bed but she is very hungry and her mother is taking a plate out of the oven. Butter chicken. Harbinder sits down at the table.

‘Shall I drive you home?’ Deepak suggests to his visitors, who are both staring at Harbinder, as if expecting her to do a magic trick.

The women get to their feet, rather reluctantly. Suddenly, Harbinder realises that she can make use of the old crones.

‘Do either of you know Seaview Court?’ she asks.

‘Oh yes,’ says Amrit. ‘The place on the seafront. Baljeet Singh lived there. Until he died.’

‘And there was another lady there who lived to be a hundred,’ says her friend. ‘She got a telegram from the Queen.’

All the old aunties love the Queen. They think she’s very Indian.

‘It’s sheltered accommodation, isn’t it?’ says Harbinder.

‘Yes, but the warden doesn’t live in. They just say that to make you pay more.’

‘So it isn’t very secure?’

‘Oh no,’ says the other woman. ‘There’s a passcode but people are going in and out all the time. Carers, you know. Anyone could get in. I’d never let my mother live somewhere like that.’

Her mother? How old must this woman be?

‘Why do you want to know?’ says Deepak, gathering up his car keys.

‘No reason really,’ says Harbinder. She goes back to her buttered chicken and, thank goodness, the two guests take the hint and leave. Harbinder doesn’t know why her dad is giving them a lift. Surely they could both fly home on their broomsticks.

3

Benedict

Mindful Cappuccino

BENEDICT COLE SMILES as he tries to froth milk mindfully. I’m really very lucky, he tells himself. I have my own café on the seafront, I meet different people every day, my view is uninterrupted sea and sky. And it’s satisfying to make drinks that people enjoy. He makes his own brownies and biscuits too. He’s really very blessed.

‘Are you going to be all day with that cappuccino, mate?’

Benedict keeps smiling but it’s hard to love people sometimes, especially when they’re wearing a striped shirt with the collar turned up and a flat cap, despite being under seventy-five. This man is actually nearer his own age, thirty-two, and, despite the ‘mate’, the voice is jarringly posh.

‘Nearly done,’ says Benedict.

‘I haven’t got all day,’ says Striped Shirt, though it’s hard to see what could be so urgent, in Shoreham on a Wednesday morning. And, actually, striped shirts are rare in Shoreham, it’s much more working class and less pretentious than Brighton. Maybe Stripy Shirt is an estate agent selling seafront apartments to people who haven’t registered this fact yet.

Benedict puts the cappuccino on the ledge. It’s a mindful work of art, creamy but still strong, a delicate leaf etched into the foam.

‘Would you like a brownie with that?’ he asks.

‘No thanks,’ says Striped Shirt. He waves a card. ‘Contactless?’

Benedict proffers the machine but, inside, he thinks that ‘contactless’ sums up his life nowadays; or sums up society, if he wants to keep his gloom on a loftier plane. In the monastery physical contact had not been encouraged (for obvious reasons) but even during silent times there had been more actual communication than Benedict sometimes encounters in a week in the Outside World. And then there was the mass, the bread and wine, the body and the blood. Catholicism is very corporeal, when you come to think of it, which Benedict does, rather too often.

‘Penny for them?’

Benedict brightens immediately because here is one of his favour­ite customers, someone not contactless, someone with whom you can have a proper conversation. Edwin really is over seventy-five but he’d never dream of wearing a flat cap. He wears a panama in the summer and a trilby in the winter, sometimes, on really cold days, a deerstalker with furry earflaps.

‘Edwin!’ says Benedict. ‘Great to see you. I missed you yesterday.’

He doesn’t like to make his customers feel guilty if they miss a day but he really does notice if one of his regulars isn’t there. He worries about it in case something is amiss.

‘Actually,’ says Edwin, taking off his hat (a mid-season fedora today). ‘I’ve had some bad news.’

‘Oh no,’ says Benedict. He sees that Edwin really does look upset, his eyes bloodshot and his hands shaking. Has a family member died? Does Edwin even have any family left?

‘It’s Peggy,’ says Edwin. ‘She’s dead.’

THERE’S ALWAYS A lull around now and, with no customers in sight, Benedict and Edwin sit at the picnic table beside the Coffee Shack. The beach is almost empty too, miles of speckled shingle interspersed with clumps of sea kale. It’s September and the children have just gone back to school, which is a shame, because the sea looks perfect for swimming, blue-green topped with tiny waves. It’s had the summer’s heat on it too.

Benedict makes Edwin eat a brownie, ‘good for shock’, and for a moment they sit in silence. Benedict is comfortable with silence—​the monastery again—​but he’s anxious to