‘The funeral’s next Wednesday,’ says Sally. ‘At the crematorium. I hope you can come.’
‘I’ll try to make it,’ says Edwin, although his Wonders of Italy calendar is entirely blank for next week, and all the weeks after it.
‘Been tidying up the flat,’ says Nigel, as he jiggles his keys about. ‘I asked the carer, that Russian girl, to box everything up but she’s only done half of it.’
‘Natalka?’ says Edwin. ‘She’s Ukrainian, I believe.’ It’s not much of a retort but it’s the best he can do.
‘We want to put it on the market immediately,’ says Nigel, ignoring this. ‘There’s always a market for sheltered accommodation.’
‘And such a lovely view,’ says Sally.
‘Yes. Peggy loved looking at the sea,’ says Edwin.
‘I know she did,’ Sally makes a gesture of patting his arm without actually touching him. ‘I’ve left some things aside for you. I’m sure you’d like a keepsake of some sort.’
‘That’s very kind.’
‘I’m getting rid of all the books,’ says Nigel. ‘Why did she read all those crime novels? I mean, she was a clever woman.’
‘Don’t clever people read crime novels?’ asks Edwin, making a list of murder mysteries in his head, starting with Macbeth and including Dickens, Dostoevsky, Charlotte Brontë and Wilkie Collins. He’s a particular fan of The Moonstone by Wilkie Collins.
Nigel doesn’t answer. ‘See you next week,’ he says. ‘We’ll have the reception here afterwards.’
‘Goodbye, Edwin,’ says Sally, with another of those air pats.
Edwin watches them go, thinking: idiot, boor, kulak. Then wondering: why is Nigel so keen to get rid of the books?
Chapter 5
Harbinder: woodland animals
‘Murder consultant?’ says Neil. ‘What does that even mean?’
Harbinder counts to five. Her new tactic with Neil is to imagine him as a woodland creature, sly, slightly stupid but ultimately lovable.
‘I don’t know,’ she says, ‘but I’d like to find out.’
‘Why?’ Nibble, nibble, washes whiskers.
‘A woman is dead and it turns out she’s a murder consultant. Aren’t you even the slightest bit curious?’
‘The police don’t pay us to be curious.’ Examines nut, twitches tail.
‘They don’t pay us much at all.’
Harbinder and Neil are on surveillance, which means that they’re sitting outside a gasworks getting on each other’s nerves. It’s not really CID work but Shoreham power station is officially classed as a terrorist target so it requires plain-clothes officers. Today they are in the car park, facing a chain-link fence and brick outbuildings. From the other side there’s actually a spectacular view across the harbour but neither of them is in the mood for the joys of nature. Harbinder is dying for some chips but Neil is phobic about people eating in his car.
‘Anyway, I thought I’d go along to Peggy Smith’s funeral,’ says Harbinder, scrolling idly through her phone. ‘See what I can find out.’
‘Do you really think there’s something suspicious about her death?’
‘It’s unlikely, I know. Her doctor didn’t think so. He put heart attack as the cause of death.’
‘Nothing to justify a post-mortem then?’
‘No. And apparently the son was very keen to get her buried – or rather cremated – as soon as possible. But the carer was worried enough to come to the police.’
‘Does this carer think the old lady was murdered?’
‘She thinks there was something odd about her death. Apparently Mrs Smith had talked about someone watching her. The carer – Natalka – had put it down to paranoia, maybe even the start of Alzheimer’s, but then she found Mrs Smith dead, sitting in her chair within easy reach of her pills.’
‘Why would anyone kill her? Was she rich?’
‘I don’t think so. Sheltered housing probably used up all her money. It would be good to check her bank accounts though. See if there’s any unusual activity. She’s got a son but it sounds like he’s pretty well-off already. No motive there.’
‘Then why are you going to the funeral?’
‘I don’t know. Just to get a feel of things. See if anyone’s acting suspiciously.’
‘Does Donna know?’
‘Yes,’ lies Harbinder, clicking onto Panda Pop.
‘I won’t tell her,’ says Neil.
Sometimes he’s not as stupid as he seems.
Harbinder isn’t sure if Mrs Smith’s funeral is uniquely grim or if Christian funerals are always like this. She’s never been to one before although she has sat through a couple of weddings. In fact, she’s only been to one funeral ever, not a bad score for someone of thirty-six. That had been the full funeral rites, the antam sanskaar, with prayers in the gurdwara afterwards. For Sikhs, death is the start of a new life and mourning is dignified and restrained – no eulogies, no wailing, no beating of chests – but there had definitely been a subdued grandeur to the occasion. Harbinder remembers flowers, chrysanthemums, and an open casket. She hadn’t gone too close. Whose funeral was it? Some ‘Auntie’ or ‘Uncle’, probably not a blood relation. Her father told her that, in India, the body would have been cremated on an open pyre but, thank God, in England they had to make do with a crematorium and the oldest family member pressing the button to close the curtains.
This is a crematorium too, lots of wood panelling and muted colours, beige and lilac, some vague non-denominational patterns on the stained-glass windows. The congregation is muted too, unlike at a Sikh gathering, and Harbinder has trouble working out which dark-suited man is Mrs Smith’s son. There’s a smartly-dressed man near the front. Could that be him? No, he looks a bit too urbane. She spots a ruddy man, slightly too large for his black suit – that’s probably him. Yes, the celebrant, a woman (vicar? minister?), is consulting him with tilted head and concerned expression. That must be Nigel’s wife with him, black dress and pearls like a cut-price Audrey Hepburn. Harbinder spots Natalka easily, her blonde hair piled on top of her head, wearing slim black trousers and a white shirt. She’s in a row of women, presumably all carers. Otherwise, there are a few people sitting alone, as if they need a pew to themselves. There’s one odd couple, though, a man in glasses and a much older man wearing a pink bow tie that seems defiant somehow. The younger man turns, scanning the room, and smiles when his eyes meet Harbinder’s. Harbinder would never smile at a stranger. Maybe she’s too suspicious. That’s what ten years of policing does for you. She doesn’t smile back.