CHAPTER 20
Pat had been busy with clients in her shepherd’s hut, doing her accounts and sending out invoices, something she avoided until the last minute due to the immense tediousness of it all.
She’d also been clearing out her spare room to make Ivy Cottage as comfortable as possible for Sofia’s arrival.
She was determined not to have a repeat of last time.
She was even going to put the heating on in the hope of making the house more barefoot-friendly.
It had amused her, thinking it over. Her mother, Margaret, would have been horrified.
Dear, stern Margaret. She wasn’t one for comfort, or central heating, or indulgence of any kind.
Pat had long made peace with her mother’s austere ways.
She liked to think she hadn’t inherited them (although Sue and Sofia might have said otherwise).
Margaret had been shaped by war and rationing and a life edged with loss.
Food had been scarce, joy scarcer, and tragedy seemed to touch every household.
Pat could still hear her mother talking about the VE Day celebrations in their Yorkshire village: the tea, the cake, the bread with real butter.
How she’d half expected her father to walk through the church hall doors that day.
But he hadn’t. It had taken months. She’d described how she and her little brother had waited each day, faces pressed to the window, willing him to appear.
And then finally he did, walking along the lane.
Her brother had spotted him first, but Margaret, aged eight, had run harder and got to him before anyone else.
That was the part she remembered most clearly.
Not the words, not the reunion. Just the running. The effort of getting there first.
She was reading some top tips for investment when Prichard opened the door. Pat hadn’t spoken to him since they had visited the police station.
‘Knock knock,’ he said. His voice sounded despondent. She looked up immediately. It was most unlike him.
‘Prichard? Are you all right? Cup of coffee?’
He dragged out a chair from under the round pine table and sat down with the sort of loud ‘ouf’ you only ever heard in old people’s homes.
‘Hello, Dave,’ he said and scratched the top of the cat’s head. Dave’s eyes closed as he leant into Prichard’s hand.
‘Prichard? What’s the matter?’
‘Oh Pat, I feel such a fool, marching into the police station like that, declaring I knew who the killer was. It was like a very bad episode of Midsomer Murders. The way she looked at me, that Stevens woman, and the way she pointed her long fingernail towards the door, it was very humiliating.’
‘That’s not what happened at all. I’ve just been on a Zoom with someone who tells herself negative fantasies about what other people think about her.
It’s a great way of torturing yourself.’ Pat snapped down the lever on her espresso machine and pressed the button.
‘Personally, I thought you were great. They just refused to listen. They seem to have different priorities. Who knows, perhaps DS Stevens is lazy, or perhaps she’s another suspect we should be looking at?
’ Prichard laughed. ‘OK, maybe I’m getting carried away with fantasy now,’ Pat continued, ‘but she’s more interested in her friend in the camel-coloured coat on Lewes station than she is in anything else, and although Barry Footer does what he’s told, my fantasy is that he was very impressed with you. ’
‘I’m still feeling like a fool,’ said Prichard.
‘You’re not convinced by my Barry-is-impressed-with-you fantasy, are you?’
‘Not yet,’ said Prichard
‘Come on,’ said Pat, putting a cup of coffee down in front of him.
‘Do you want me to break this down for you? Maybe we were a little impetuous with our accusation of Dorna Braddon. Maybe we let our dislike of how she gets around planning permission cloud our judgement. I certainly did.’ She laughed.
‘I can’t bear to think of her polluting our Downs.
Nothing would make me happier than if her horrific development wasn’t happening. ’
‘The bats are back, by the way,’ said Prichard, taking a sip of his coffee.
‘I went this morning, early. I saw you swimming, your black bobble hat bobbing around in the sea. But I just wanted to be alone, and then suddenly I found myself there, checking the guano. It was fresh, you know, and I looked up in the eaves and could have sworn I saw a bat. Or two. I couldn’t be sure, but the guano was definitely fresh, and there’s no arguing with guano, that’s for sure. ’
They both sighed at the same time and turned to look up at the crime board above their heads.
Henry’s name was still in the middle, surrounded by other labels – Fin du Monde, fake suicide note, Birling Gap, Derek, Dorna, Fi, Bats, Boho Golf.
Pat had also written Missing key and No one saw him sitting at the cliff edge.
‘Just think of it like a Sudoku,’ said Prichard, squinting at the board. ‘We’ve got most of the numbers, we’re just missing a few. All you need to do is tot them up and it will equal murder.’
‘Sure, except Sudoku isn’t about adding up,’ said Pat, ‘and currently Derek plus Dorna plus Fi currently equals nada.’
‘Well, not really,’ declared Prichard, looking at her. ‘At the moment, that equals book club.’
‘What do you mean?’
‘You’re not on the WhatsApp, obviously, since you’ve been banned for being a Trump supporter.’ He laughed. Pat was glad that at least something amused him. ‘It’s this evening.’
‘What is?’
‘Book club. Everyone is very keen, we’re trying to do it every fortnight.’
‘What are you supposed to have read?’
‘Fifty Shades of Grey.’
‘Of course!’
‘I’m sure you can come along. It was posh Diccon from the Grand Designs house who kicked you off the group, and he’s not invited.’
‘I’m not so sure,’ replied Pat. ‘I mean, I haven’t read the book.’
‘I’ve told you before,’ Prichard smiled, ‘look at Goodreads and some reviews, and if you’re stuck you can always try the Guardian.’
‘I’m not sure they reviewed Fifty Shades of Grey.’
‘You’d be surprised.’
Later, Pat found herself standing in Fi’s sitting room, a glass of white wine in hand, her feet slowly disappearing into the white shag-pile rug, watching their hostess, dressed in tight leather trousers, squeak around on her own white leather sofa.
Most of the book club had gathered to discuss E.
L. James’s bestseller, although Dorna Braddon had sent her excuses.
She was in London, apparently, having a meeting with her architect about the Boho Golf development.
Prichard was on good form, having overcome his earlier mortification, and seemed to be well versed in the goings-on of Anastasia and Christian and the red room of pain, his speed reading of the Guardian book review standing him in good stead.
But Pat wasn’t really listening, because Derek was wandering around between the white hydrangeas and the scented spa candles, serving drinks and handing out canapés.
He appeared relaxed, familiar with his surroundings, resting his hand on the back of the sofa, laughing at something Fi said, plucking a crisp from a bowl in front of him and popping it into his grinning mouth.
‘So how long are you staying here?’ asked Pat, as he approached offering up a plate of pink curls of smoked salmon.
‘Me?’ He smiled, showing a row of neat blue-white veneered teeth, and ruffled his blonde hair with his free hand.
Pat remained impassive. He was flirting with her, which she presumed he did with absolutely everyone and everything, including the soft furnishings.
He smelt of expensive aftershave. Pat remembered Henry remarking on how nice Derek smelt, and he wasn’t wrong.
Vanilla with a base note of smoke. It was very attractive.
Derek himself was attractive; he had charisma and charm and the easy assurance of someone used to being admired.
‘Well.’ His body swayed a little, his crisp white shirt was unbuttoned just enough for the observer to see the square outline of his waxed pectoral muscles.
His chest gleamed, smooth, bronzed. His jeans were well cut and he was wearing an expensive-looking designer belt.
‘That all depends on Fifi.’ He smirked a little, as if he were remembering an intimate liaison.
‘How’s that?’ Pat plucked a sliver of salmon off his plate.
‘I mean, I don’t want to outstay my welcome.’ He glanced over at Fi, who clocked the heat of his gaze and wrinkled her nose in response.
‘You look most welcome to me,’ Pat said, understanding the quite basic dynamic. ‘Is Malcolm away at the moment?’
‘He is,’ confirmed Derek. ‘And I’m a little bit homeless just now, what with one thing and another, so I’m stopping here for a bit. Just so long as Mal doesn’t mind. But Mal’s a top geezer, and so far, so good.’
‘You’re a little bit homeless? That doesn’t sound good.’
‘Oh, I know.’ He rolled his bright blue eyes and smiled his pale blue smile. ‘It’s all a bit, you know, tricky.’ He whistled through his teeth.
‘How so?’
‘Well, my flatmate and I had a falling-out.’
‘Go on.’
‘You’re not really interested in this.’ He laughed and made as if to move away.
‘No, no, I am.’ Pat nodded keenly and leant in to whisper. ‘To be honest, I haven’t read the book, so I’m hiding over here to avoid sitting down and discussing however many shades of grey it is.’
‘Gotcha.’ He grinned. She’d known he’d understand; from one charlatan chancer to another.
‘So, my mate Henry, well, he decided I should move out, and so here I am.’ He shrugged and took a sip of his champagne, then snatched another glance at Fi, who was laughing loudly, snuggled up next to Prichard.
‘Henry Clayton?’ Derek was distracted, so Pat went for it.
His head spun back immediately and he frowned, as much as his recent visit to the beautician in Brighton would allow. ‘Um …’ he hesitated, staring at her. ‘Yes. How do you know him?’