She hears Garth coming through the door now. Even though he is able to be quiet, he chooses not to be.
It’s the middle of the night, and she wonders where he has been, but it doesn’t really do to ask sometimes. You must let Garth be Garth. He has never let her down yet.
He will see that her studio light is on, and he will be up with a whisky and a kiss for her before long.
A couple more Picassos and she will call it a night.
7: Joyce
OK, I have a riddle for you.
How can you celebrate New Year’s Eve with your friends, and still get to bed early?
Because I have done just that this evening.
We’ve had the most wonderful New Year’s Eve bash. We drank, we counted down to midnight and watched the fireworks on TV. We sang ‘Auld Lang Syne’, Ron fell over a coffee table, and we all went home.
So a very happy New Year to one and all and, best of all, it is still only ten p.m., so I can get into bed at a reasonable hour.
And here’s how.
There is a lovely man called Bob Whittaker from Wordsworth Court – not my type, before you get ideas – and he was something in computers, before everyone was something in computers. He eats lunch by himself, but is very approachable. Last year he built a drone and flew it over Coopers Chase and invited us all into the lounge to watch the film. It was wonderful – he’d even put music on it. You could see the llamas and the lakes, and you could see that the Ocado delivery vans had OCADO written on their roofs – they really have thought of everything. I think that was in the summer, before the first murder, but you lose track, don’t you? After the film he gave a talk about drones, which was less well attended but, according to Ibrahim, very good.
So this was Bob’s idea. He hired out the lounge, and the big screen, and everyone was invited. In the end there must have been about fifty of us. Sometimes when you’re in a group like that you really see how old you are, like walking through a hall of mirrors.
We all brought along food and, mainly, drink, and watched some episodes of Only Fools and Horses that Bob had illegally downloaded.
Then, at about 8.50, Bob switched the screen to a Turkish television channel, where they were counting down to the New Year three hours ahead of us. I don’t know where he found it, on the internet, I imagine. They would have Turkish television there, wouldn’t they?
They had music, dancers, and a host who we couldn’t understand, but you absolutely knew the type, so you had a rough idea of the sort of thing he’d be saying. A countdown clock appeared on the screen – Turkish numbers are the same as ours – and a brass band started playing the Turkish national anthem or something similar. When it reached ‘10’ we all joined in counting down; and, as it hit nine p.m. here it hit midnight in Turkey and they set off the fireworks and we all hugged and cheered and wished each other a Happy New Year. A rock band started playing on the TV so Bob turned it down, and Ron started ‘Auld Lang Syne’ and we linked arms and thought of old acquaintances, and thanked our lucky stars for seeing another New Year. Ten minutes or so later, we drifted home, New Year celebrated and ready for an early night.
To look at Bob in the restaurant, or wandering through the village, you might dismiss him as boring. He is quiet and shy, and is always in a grey jumper over a stiff white shirt. But this man had the wherewithal to give us all a wonderful evening. To be able to get Turkish TV on an English telly, and also to have the kindness to understand how much everyone would enjoy it, well, that takes quite a man.
And I know what you’re thinking, but, again, he’s not my type. I wish that he was.
I texted ‘Happy New Year’ to Joanna, and she texted back ‘HNY’, as if the effort of spelling out the words was a bit too much. I texted ‘Happy New Year’ to Viktor too, and he texted back ‘May you be granted health and wealth and wisdom, and may you see your beauty reflected in those around you,’ which was much more like it. I then raised a glass to Gerry, as I always do.
I also raised a glass to Bernard, here last New Year, and gone now. We won’t all be here this time next year, that’s just the facts of the matter. Those at the back of the line will fall, and no one will tell you where you are in the line. Though at my age I have a rough idea. As Ibrahim always says, ‘The numbers don’t look good.’
There are plenty of things to look forward to though, and that’s the key. What’s the point of another year if you don’t fill it? I am looking forward to Donna’s scheme to help Mervyn, even if I’ve rather given up on Mervyn himself. Why can’t Bob from Wordsworth Court have Mervyn’s eyebrows and his deep voice, and why can’t Mervyn have Bob’s kindness and cleverness? I’m so shallow, I wish I wasn’t.
When I think about it, Gerry had kindness and cleverness and eyebrows, so perhaps you are only gifted one of those men in a lifetime?
I can hear Alan’s tail thumping against the leg of my desk, even though the man himself is fast asleep.
A very Happy New Year to you. May you see many more.
8
The victim is a man called Kuldesh Sharma, and the body has been here for some days. An antiques dealer from Brighton. The car had been found at around six thirty this morning, by a local man walking his dog. Walking his dog in the dark on New Year’s Day? I mean, sure mate, whatever you say. Not Chris’s problem though – he has a corpse to deal with.
And so here they are. It’s so nearly a lovely view, thinks Chris, his breath frosty in the early-morning air.
A narrow, deeply pitted track cuts through the Kent woods, ridged with frost, ending at a wooden fence, penning in winter sheep. A scene from across the centuries, unbroken for generations. Silver-white branches reach out overhead, latticing a brilliant blue sky.
It might be a Christmas postcard, but for the extreme violence.
Chris has had a few days off over Christmas. Patrice had come down from London, and Chris had cooked her a turkey, which was much too big and had taken far too long to cook, but which seemed to be greatly appreciated. Briefly, possibly during The Sound of Music, with Patrice in tears, Chris had been tempted to propose, but bottled it at the last moment. What if she thought it ridiculous? Too soon? The ring remains in his jacket pocket at home. There for when the courage strikes.
Donna had been at work. Christmas at the station is often quite good fun though. Mince pies, the odd arrest, double pay. She had joined them in the evening, with Bogdan. Chris had suddenly panicked that Bogdan might have proposed. And with a nicer ring? But that really would be too soon.
The frost crunches underfoot.
If the birds had been disturbed by the gunshot, their disturbance was long forgotten, and their happy noise echoes above. Even the sheep are back about their business. It is serene and peaceful, and the pure-white overalls of the forensic officers shine in the low winter sun. Chris and Donna duck under the police tape and walk towards the small car, plump and berry-red in this Christmas grotto.
The track is off a lane, which is off a hedge-canyoned road, which meanders slowly and peacefully from a Kent village. The village itself was so beautiful that Chris had been surfing Rightmove up to the moment they finally reached the scene. £1.8m for a farmhouse. The village was described as ‘tranquil’.
Even the finest estate agent in Kent would be hard-pressed to describe it as that today.
‘Mum said you had no Quality Street?’ says Donna. ‘The whole Christmas?’
‘No Quality Street, no Terry’s Chocolate Orange, no Baileys,’ says Chris. The foods of Christmas Past. Ghosts to him. On the plus side, he almost has abs now.