The Postscript Murders Read online

  Also by Elly Griffiths

  The Dr Ruth Galloway Mysteries

  The Crossing Places

  The Janus Stone

  The House at Sea’s End

  A Room Full of Bones

  A Dying Fall

  The Outcast Dead

  The Ghost Fields

  The Woman in Blue

  The Chalk Pit

  The Dark Angel

  The Stone Circle

  The Lantern Men

  The Brighton Mysteries

  The Zig Zag Girl

  Smoke and Mirrors

  The Blood Card

  The Vanishing Box

  Now You See Them

  Other Works

  The Stranger Diaries

  For Children

  A Girl Called Justice

  A Girl Called Justice: The Smugglers’ Secret

  This ebook edition published in 2020 by

  Quercus Editions Ltd

  Carmelite House

  50 Victoria Embankment

  London EC4Y 0DZ

  An Hachette UK company

  Copyright © 2020 Elly Griffiths

  The moral right of Elly Griffiths to be

  identified as the author of this work has been

  asserted in accordance with the Copyright,

  Designs and Patents Act, 1988.

  All rights reserved. No part of this publication

  may be reproduced or transmitted in any form

  or by any means, electronic or mechanical,

  including photocopy, recording, or any

  information storage and retrieval system,

  without permission in writing from the publisher.

  Lines from ‘New Year Letter’ by W. H. Auden are quoted by permission of Curtis Brown Ltd

  A CIP catalogue record for this book is available

  from the British Library

  EBOOK ISBN 978 1 78747 766 7

  This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters,

  businesses, organizations, places and events are

  either the product of the author’s imagination

  or used fictitiously. Any resemblance to

  actual persons, living or dead, events or

  locales is entirely coincidental.

  Ebook by CC Book Production

  www.quercusbooks.co.uk

  For Rebecca Carter

  ‘Jove and my stars be praised. Here is yet a postscript.’

  William Shakespeare, Twelfth Night

  ‘Do you feel an uncomfortable heat at the pit of your stomach, sir? And a nasty thumping at the top of your head? . . . I call it the detective-fever.’

  Wilkie Collins, The Moonstone

  Contents

  The Postscript Murders

  Also By

  Title

  Copyright

  Dedication

  Epigraphs

  Prologue

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Chapter 27

  Chapter 28

  Chapter 29

  Chapter 30

  Chapter 31

  Chapter 32

  Chapter 33

  Chapter 34

  Chapter 35

  Chapter 36

  Chapter 37

  Chapter 38

  Chapter 39

  Acknowledgements

  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

  Chapter 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 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.

  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 co
me 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.’