‘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.
Chapter 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.’