‘Yes. It was a shock.’ There’s a pause and then she says, ‘At first I thought it was sad but just one of those things, you know? Peggy had angina, she used to take pills for it. They were by her chair when she died. But then I started to think that things weren’t right.’
‘Weren’t right?’
‘No. I’d seen Peggy only that morning and she’d seemed in good health. She used to swim and go for walks. She never used the lift at the flats.’
‘She was ninety though.’
‘Do you think ninety-year-olds can’t be murdered?’
‘Murdered?’ The word comes out far too loud. From the roof of the shack, the seagull is laughing at him.
‘I don’t know,’ says Natalka. ‘But, when I was clearing away her books, I found this.’ She puts a business card in front of him.
‘“Mrs M. Smith,”’ he reads, ‘“murder consultant.” Murder consultant? What does that mean?’
‘I went to the police yesterday evening,’ says Natalka, as if this is an everyday occurrence. ‘I spoke to a very nice woman detective sergeant. She agreed that it was suspicious.’
‘She did?’
‘Well, she didn’t say as much but I could tell that she agreed with me. I said that she should come to Peggy’s funeral, see what she can find out. The son must be the first suspect, after all.’
‘The son? Nigel? The kulak?’
‘That’s the one. He’s an oaf. I know the sort. He wanted all of Peggy’s books put away. Now I know why.’
‘Why?’ asks Benedict. Is this a dream? he asks himself. But he never has dreams this interesting.
‘Peggy had a lot of crime books.’
‘I know.’ This was something he and Peggy had in common. They spent many happy hours at the picnic table discussing Agatha Christie, Ruth Rendell and Peggy’s favourite, an out-of-print golden-age writer called Sheila Atkins.
‘I don’t mean just reading them.’ Natalka’s voice is dismissive. ‘Peggy was actually mentioned in the books. In the, what are they called? Acknowledgements. For Peggy, with thanks. One even says “thanks for the murders”.’
‘Thanks for the murders?’
‘Yes. And now she’s been murdered.’
Benedict once went on a roller coaster at Thorpe Park. As soon as he was strapped in his seat, he realised that the ride was a very bad idea. But it was too late, the car had plunged downwards, unstoppable and terrifying. He has the same feeling now.
‘We don’t know that . . .’ he begins.
‘There is something suspicious,’ says Natalka, standing up. ‘And we need to investigate. We were her friends. Who else is there?’
‘The police?’
‘I’ve told the police,’ says Natalka patiently. ‘But now it’s up to us. We must watch everyone at the funeral.’
‘Why?’
‘Because the murderer always attends the funeral. Honestly, Benny, don’t you know anything?’
Chapter 4
Edwin: Preview Court
Edwin walks slowly back to Seaview Court. In his head, he sometimes calls it Preview Court, which would be worrying if he ever said it aloud. He doesn’t want people to think that he can’t remember the name of his own place of residence. The trouble is, so much of his life now goes on in his head that he’s sometimes not sure what’s real and what isn’t. It’s like a tree falling in the forest. Is a word spoken if no one hears it? And why Preview, for heaven’s sake? Is it a buried cultural reference to the old Morecambe and Wise sketch with the conductor André Previn, hilariously misnamed by Eric Morecambe? Or is it an acknowledgement of the inescapable truth that this sheltered apartment is, in fact, a preview of death?
Andrew Preview. The right notes in the wrong order. Edwin used to work at the BBC, in the days of bow ties and long lunches. He started as a researcher on a quiz show whose rules he never quite mastered, then he had a spell as a presenter on Radio 3, indulging his love of classical music. Eventually he ended up producing religious programmes and a tasteful documentary or two. Halcyon days. Edwin had many friends, even a discreet love affair or two. Homosexuality was still illegal when Edwin was a young man but the BBC had seemed like a safe haven, or almost-safe; there had been a few nasty incidents in Shepherd’s Bush late at night but Edwin had lived a charmed life. He thinks of his lovers now: Jeremy, Nicky and François. Nicky and François both died of AIDS in the eighties and Jeremy, improbably, was now a married man, a father and grandfather. They’d lost touch years ago. Sometimes Edwin feels like the last man standing. With Peggy gone, he’s the only sentient being left in Preview Court.
He climbs the stairs to his second-floor flat. He and Peggy had made it a point of honour never to use the lift. Of course, Peggy had been ninety, a good ten years older than Edwin, and, once you’re over eighty, every year matters. It’s funny, though. Edwin had always expected that he would die first. Women live longer, everyone knows that, and Peggy was such a tough old soul. A heart attack, that’s what Natalka said, but Peggy had never exhibited any symptoms of a bad heart, no unhealthy pallor, no shortness of breath. Hence the stairs, hence the seafront walk every day. She’d even been a swimmer until very recently. It had been Surfers Against Sewage that had put her off, not fear of rough seas.
Edwin turns the corridor leading to his flat, number twenty-three, and to Peggy’s, number twenty-one, which is diagonally opposite. His is slightly bigger but she had the sea view. He’s surprised to see Peggy’s door open and hear voices inside. Should he go in and see what’s happening? But he doesn’t want to assume the age-old role of the nosy neighbour. Nosy old neighbour, even worse. As he dithers, a man and a woman come out of the apartment. Edwin recognises the man as Peggy’s son Nigel. The woman must be his wife.
Nigel recognises Edwin but obviously can’t come up with the name. He’s a large man, red faced and choleric-looking. It’s hard to believe that he’s related to Peggy, so neat and trim in her reefer coat and colourful berets.
‘It’s Edwin, isn’t it?’ says the woman. ‘Peggy’s friend.’ She’s better than Nigel deserves, slim and elegant in a white shirt, jeans and loafers.
Edwin hears himself declaring, stiffly, that he was, indeed, Peggy’s friend.
‘I’m Sally,’ says the woman, ‘Peggy’s daughter-in-law. I know how fond she was of you.’
Suddenly, to his horror, Edwin feels tears starting in his eyes. He gets out his handkerchief, muttering about hay fever.