CHAPTER 26 #2
Pat reached for the top of the fridge and grabbed the first thing that came to hand: the lid of the orange Le Creuset pot. She whacked him hard over the head with it. ‘I’m of a certain age, not old!’ she shouted.
‘Oh. My. GOD!’ exclaimed Marcus, feeling the side of his head. Stunned, he looked at Pat, and the lid, and back at Pat again. ‘Ouch,’ he said, ‘that really hurt!’
Pat didn’t know what to say. She had never done anything quite so violent in her life. ‘Sorry,’ she replied.
‘Well, yes, I should think so!’ he said, and opening the front door, he staggered out, one hand on his head, the other dragging his leg. Swearing in disbelief, he limped up the garden path and out of the gate, leaving a trail of blood as he went.
‘Pat, Pat!’ exclaimed Prichard, rushing into the kitchen, arms wrapped around his ribcage. ‘Are you all right! Who was that? I have never been more terrified in all my life!’
‘Prichard,’ said Pat, struggling for breath. ‘I had no idea you were so brave.’
‘Brave?’
‘You threw yourself across the sofa like a panther with its claws out. You were incredibly heroic. I didn’t know you had it in you!’ She smiled.
‘Frankly, my dear, neither did I!’
‘I think you saved my life.’
‘I think I might have done!’
‘And Dave,’ they both said, turning to look at the cat, who was sitting in the middle of the kitchen table trying to look nonchalant, though his hackles were still up and he was twice his normal size.
Pat locked the door and opened a packet of cat treats, counting out six.
‘Is that all he gets?’ said Prichard.
‘He’s on a diet.’ She scratched Dave’s head. ‘By the way, Prichard, what took you so long to come to my rescue?’
‘I woke up to the sound of Marcus’s voice and thought I was dreaming, then I realised he was confessing, so I turned my phone on and pressed record.’
‘Oh my God, genius!’ said Pat.
‘What if he comes back?’ Prichard asked, eyes darting to the door.
‘He’d better not, or I’ll use the whole Le Creuset pot next time!’
It was just gone 8.30 a.m. when Pat and Prichard walked into Southbourne police station.
PC Footer was already at the front desk, slowly tearing bits of croissant out of a paper bag while checking the messages on his phone.
The reception was quiet, the floor still damp from its recent mopping. The smell of bleach hung in the air.
‘Dr Phillips!’ Footer said, sitting up straight and scrunching the paper bag shut. ‘What are you and Mr Knowles doing here?’
‘We’d like to talk to Detective Sergeant Stevens,’ said Pat, leaning on the front desk a little for support.
She’d had no idea quite how exhausted she was.
What with the late night and her early-morning caller, plus the amount of champagne and damson gin she’d imbibed, she was completely thrown off her schedule and had rather a poor head and dry mouth to boot.
Prichard, on the other hand, had had a delightful snooze in Dave’s bed and was pumped up after his fight with Marcus and his astonishing, reckless bravery. Saving one’s dearest friend from certain death did things to a man.
‘We demand to see DS Stevens!’ he declared, thumping the front desk with his clenched fist. ‘And I guarantee she wants to see us!’
‘Not again, surely,’ said PC Footer, shaking his head.
‘I know my rights.’ Prichard nodded. ‘And we also know who murdered Henry Clayton.’
‘That case is closed,’ PC Footer replied.
‘Then reopen it!’ Prichard swung his arm dramatically out in front of himself, as if he were sweeping aside great hordes.
‘I think it would be better for all of us if you just let us in to see her,’ whispered Pat. ‘Otherwise there is no telling what Mr Knowles might do.’
‘Sure,’ said PC Footer, pressing the entry buzzer under the desk. ‘Although she does have someone with her at the moment.’
‘We won’t take long,’ said Pat, opening the door to the open-plan office.
‘It’s our local MP!’ he called after them as the door swung shut.
The back room, despite the paucity of coppers, smelt strongly of milky coffee and bacon sandwiches.
But Pat and Prichard were on a mission as they marched between the empty desks towards the glass office at the back, where DS Stevens was sitting, ankles crossed, one heel on the ground, while she swung from side to side, laughing up at a figure who was standing in front of her, leaning on the desk, still wearing his camel-coloured coat.
‘Honourable Member,’ announced Prichard with a broad grin, his hand extended forward.
‘Prichard. Prichard Knowles. We met the other day, when you judged the art competition in the village hall in Westlinke.’ He shook the MP’s hand vigorously.
‘Very nice to see you again, and thank you very much indeed for the second place.’
The MP stood to attention and looked at Pat and Prichard, seemingly confused by their sudden interruption.
‘Right, sorry, who did you say you were again?’
‘This is Dr Patricia Phillips, and I’m Prichard Knowles MBE. And we have solved the case of the murder of Henry Clayton.’
The MP had thick grey hair and a sports-car tan.
He was wearing a smart navy suit, a Savile Row shirt and a pair of gold cufflinks, with portcullis lapel pins on his coat and his jacket.
Pat watched as DS Stevens stood up and straightened her skirt, then smoothed down the stray hairs in her neat brown bun.
She looked from one to the other, noticing the tension in the air, the flushed pink of Stevens’ cheeks.
Yes, she thought, the honourable member was definitely the man who’d dug his fingers into the detective’s buttocks at Lewes station.
‘You’ve solved a murder?’ asked the MP. ‘How extraordinary, Mr Knowles! How could you possibly have done that! DS Stevens is all ears, aren’t you, Amanda?’
‘Except that the case is closed.’ Stevens smiled tightly.
‘Ms Stevens has the highest clean-up rate in the south,’ added the honourable member.
‘Well, here’s another one to add to that lengthy list,’ said Pat. ‘I’m sure she won’t mind that.’
‘Listen to this,’ said Prichard, and he got out his phone and pressed play.
‘I can’t hear anything except muffled sounds,’ said Stevens.
‘Wait!’ said Pat, and they continued to listen. Suddenly the sounds became clearer.
‘That’s when I pushed my phone under the sofa, nearer the action,’ said Prichard.
They listened to the confession, the threats, the fight, the sounds of Dave’s contribution.
After the recording stopped, there was silence.
‘What was that all about?’ said the MP.
Pat ignored him and looked at DS Stevens. ‘As you can probably hear, I hit Marcus with an iron casserole lid. Do you want to arrest me for actual bodily harm?’
‘Who is he?’ said Stevens.
‘Marcus Ellis, he lives next door to the pub. He’s probably packing up right now and making his way back to London.
This is how we caught him – these are the vlogs we’ve found on YouTube or Instagram or TokTok or whatever it’s called.
’ Pat put a sheaf of paper on DS Stevens’ desk.
‘And I think he would probably be an interesting person to run through your police computer.’
‘One thing I don’t understand,’ said the honourable member, ‘is why he would confess to you, Dr Phillips?’
‘It certainly wasn’t guilt,’ Pat replied.
‘It wasn’t a slip, either. It was about control.
About recognition. He wanted me to know.
Not just what he’d done but how clever he thought it was.
He needed someone to bear witness. And not just anyone – me.
Because I’d seen through him. I’d challenged him.
I think that in his mind it gave the whole thing weight if I understood.
That’s why he chose that moment – when he thought he was about to kill me.
He thought it would be him having the last word on the matter.
People like Marcus don’t want to get away with it quietly.
They want to be admired for getting away with it.
That’s what this was. A performance. And I was the audience.
It wasn’t enough for him to win. He needed a witness. ’
‘How d’you know that?’ asked DS Stevens.
‘It’s just my professional opinion,’ said Pat solemnly.
‘I’m not sure what to say to you, Dr Phillips.’ The detective smiled briefly and patted the back of her tight bun. She exhaled a deep sigh. ‘Except thank you, I suppose. Thank you for helping us catch a murderer. The Downs are a safer place with you here.’
Pat couldn’t believe what she was hearing. Amanda Stevens finally listening to her? Thanking her? She blinked at the detective. Was she dreaming? Had she heard that right? Amanda Stevens. Thanking her. Maybe she needed more sleep. Or stronger tea.
Prichard had to hand over his phone, as it was now evidence. He was rather miffed about this. ‘We’ll get you a burner to use until you get it back,’ said Pat.
‘But I’ve just downloaded Duolingo and I’m getting really good at Korean now,’ he protested.
The MP butted in. ‘We should think about giving you both some sort of award.’
‘No thank you,’ smiled Pat. ‘I think we’ve had quite enough excitement as it is.’