It’s lovely to open presents though. I bought Joanna the new Kate Atkinson book, and some perfume she had emailed me the name of, and I bought the football chairman some cufflinks, which I suspect he would also describe as a nice thought. I always put the receipts in with things. My mother used to do the same. But I don’t imagine he’ll be taking them back, as they were from the M & S in Brighton, and he always seems to be either in London or Dubai.
Lunch with the gang today, so I finally managed to have my turkey and crackers. I insisted. You could see Elizabeth beginning to object to both, but she thought better of it, so I must have looked determined. However, I made what I suspect was an error by inviting Mervyn to join us. I keep thinking he’s going to melt, but I fear I might be barking up the wrong tree with this one. I just hope I can bark up the right tree one of these days. Before I run out of trees. Or before I stop barking altogether.
We retired to Ibrahim’s flat afterwards, and Mervyn headed home. He revealed he has an online girlfriend, Tatiana, who he has never met but seems to be funding nonetheless. Ibrahim says Mervyn is a victim of ‘romance fraud’ and is going to speak to Donna and Chris about it. When do the police start work again after Christmas? Gerry used to go back somewhere around the 4th of January, but the police are probably different to West Sussex County Council.
I will detail the presents we all bought each other.
Elizabeth to Joyce – A foot spa. The one they advertise on TV. I am in it now. My feet anyway.
Joyce to Elizabeth – M & S vouchers.
Elizabeth to Ron – Whisky.
Ibrahim to Ron – An autobiography of a footballer I hadn’t heard of. Not David Beckham or Gary Lineker.
Ron to Elizabeth – Whisky.
Joyce to Ron – M & S vouchers.
Ibrahim to Elizabeth – A book called The Psychopath Test.
Elizabeth to Ibrahim – A painting of Cairo, which made Ibrahim cry, so they have obviously had a conversation at some point that I wasn’t party to.
Joyce to Ibrahim – M & S vouchers. And this was after Elizabeth’s present, so I felt I could have done better.
Ibrahim to Joyce – M & S vouchers. Phew!
Ron to Joyce – The Kama Sutra. Very funny, Ron.
Ibrahim to Alan – A telephone that squeaks.
Alan to Ibrahim – A clay tablet with Alan’s paw print on it. Ibrahim cried again. Yes!
Ron to Ibrahim – A fake Oscar statue with My Best Mate on it. Which set us all off.
We drank, we had a little singalong – Elizabeth doesn’t know the words to ‘Last Christmas’, if you can believe that? But then I suppose I don’t know the words to ‘In the Bleak Midwinter’. We listened to Ron rail against the monarchy for about twenty-five minutes, and then we went our separate ways.
When I got back I unwrapped a present that Donna had sent me, which was lovely of her, as I don’t really know how much police constables earn. It was a little brass dog, which, if you squint, looks a bit like Alan. She bought it at Kemptown Curios in Brighton. It’s run by Stephen’s friend Kuldesh, who helped us in our last case. Sounds like my type of place. Perhaps I’ll visit, because now I have to buy Donna something in return. I do like having people to buy for.
So, all in all, I’ve had a lovely Boxing Day, and am going to fall asleep in front of a Judi Dench film. All that’s missing is Gerry working his way through a tin of Quality Street and leaving the wrappers in the tin. Irritating at the time, but I’d give everything I own to have him back. Gerry liked the Strawberry Delights and Orange Crèmes, and I liked the Toffee Pennies, and if you want to know the recipe for a happy marriage it is that.
Joanna gave me a big hug when she left and told me she loved me. She may be wrong about turkey and crackers, but she still has a few tricks up her sleeve. What is it about Christmas? Everything that’s wrong seems worse, and everything that’s right seems better.
My lovely friends, my lovely daughter. My husband gone, his silly smile gone.
I feel like I should drink to something, so I suppose let’s drink to ‘No murders next year’.
4
Thursday, 27th December, ten a.m.
Kuldesh Sharma is glad that Christmas is over. Glad to be back in his shop. Lots of the other small businesses in the area were shut for the duration, but Kuldesh was opening Kemptown Curios bright and early on December 27th.
He is dressed up for the shop, as always. Purple suit, cream silk shirt. Yellow brogues. Running a shop is theatre. Kuldesh looks at himself in an antique mirror, nods his approval and takes a small bow.
Would anyone come in? Probably not. Who needed an Art Deco porcelain figurine or a silver letter opener two days after Christmas? No one. But Kuldesh could have a little spruce-up, rearrange some bits and bobs, trawl the online auctions. Basically, he could keep himself busy. Christmas Day and Boxing Day pass very slowly when you are by yourself. There is only so much reading you can do, so many cups of tea you can make, before the loneliness crowds in around you. You breathe it in, you cry it out, and the clock ticks slowly, slowly, until you are allowed to sleep. He hadn’t even dressed up on Christmas Day. Who was there to dress up for?
The hardware store opposite is open. Big Dave who runs it lost his wife to cancer in October. The coffee shop further down the hill is also open. It is run by a young widow.
Kuldesh sips his cappuccino in the back office of his shop. He only opened up a matter of minutes ago, and he is taken by surprise when he hears the jingle of the shop bell.
Who has come calling, at such an hour, on such a day?
He pushes himself out of his chair, his arms doing the work his knees used to, walks through the office door into the shop and sees a well-dressed, powerfully built man in his forties. Kuldesh nods, then looks away, finding something he can pretend to be busy with.
You must only ever glance at new customers. Some people want eye contact, but most do not. You must treat customers like cats, and wait for them to come to you. Look too needy and you’ll scare them off. If you do it right, the customers end up thinking you are doing them some sort of favour, allowing them to buy something in your shop.
Kuldesh doesn’t have to worry with this particular customer though. He’s not a buyer, he’s a seller. Close-cropped hair, expensive tan, teeth too bright for his face, as seems the fashion these days. And in his hand a leather holdall that looks more expensive than anything in the shop.
‘You the guy who owns this place?’ A Scouse accent. Unafraid. Threatening? A touch perhaps, but nothing that scares Kuldesh. Whatever is in that expensive bag will be interesting, Kuldesh knows that. Illegal, but interesting. See what he would have missed if he’d stayed at home?
‘Kuldesh,’ Kuldesh says. ‘I trust you had an enjoyable Christmas?’
‘Idyllic,’ says the man. ‘I’m selling. Got a box for you. Very decorative.’
Kuldesh nods; he knows the score. Not really his racket, this, but perhaps all the regular places are shut until New Year. Still, no need to give in without a fight.
‘I’m not buying, I’m afraid,’ he says. ‘No room for anything – got to clear some stock out first. Perhaps you’d like to buy a Victorian card table?’
But the man isn’t listening. He places the bag, carefully, on the counter and half unzips it. ‘Ugly box, terracotta, all yours.’
‘Travelled a long way, has it?’ Kuldesh asks, taking a peek inside at the box. Dark and dull, some carving hidden by a layer of grime.