A Very Private Murder (2 page)

‘Fine, you look fine,’ he replied with barely a glance. She was wearing one of her hats, he noticed. Being mayoress had truly gone to her head.

The doorbell rang. ‘That’s the car,’ Threadneedle said. ‘Let’s go.’ He cast a glance back at the chain of office draped over the back of the settee, then turned and picked it up. He was the mayor, after all, and the people deserved to be able to see what they were getting for their money. He adjusted it in the hall mirror and followed his wife to where the chauffeur-cum-town macebearer was holding open the Rover’s rear door.

Fifteen minutes later they were in the mall, finding their way through the crowds who were hoping for a glance of the girl who could one day quite easily become their queen. They visited the central atrium, where the unveiling ceremony would take place, and Threadneedle checked that the area in front of the plaque was roped off and the curtains hiding it were intact. He’d spent much of the previous evening opening and closing them until they moved with silky precision.

‘Everything fine, John?’ he asked the chief of security who stood with five other employees, wearing their dark uniforms and LAPD-style caps, looking like the chorus line from a Midwestern production of
Pirates of Penzance
.

‘AOK, Mr Threadneedle,’ came the reply. ‘It’s been under constant surveillance and is just as we left it last night.’

The mall had been doing business for a week, but this Monday was the official opening. Its building had not gone without objections from several quarters, including the RSPB, several local protest groups with silly acronyms, the Ramblers’ Association and Friends of the Earth. A sizeable patch of moorland had been sacrificed for the buildings and car parks, and several miles of footpath lost or rerouted. There’d been no threats of disobedience – civil or otherwise – but a large police presence was on show and an even larger one was posing as the shopping public.

Threadneedle checked the CCTV monitors in the basement and received another favourable report, so he made his way through the throng to the Green Room, where all the dignitaries would meet. Mrs Threadneedle, who was only five feet tall, fought gallantly to keep up with him, wondering if the wide-brimmed hat had been such a good idea. As he walked, Threadneedle went through the wording on the stone plaque that he himself had composed, wondering if it could have been improved upon, if he ought to have called himself
Councillor
Threadneedle. It said:

The Green Room was crowded although Miss Curzon’s party had not arrived. The chief constable and the local MP, plus wives and management, were already in there, sipping sherry and waiting. She was understood to be bringing along her younger sister for moral support and would be accompanied by the Lord Lieutenant of the county and two police bodyguards. Officially she wasn’t authorised to have a royal bodyguard, but when any
high-profile
dignitary was in a police force’s area it was the custom to pass on notification and a weather eye would be kept on them.

She arrived without her sister ten minutes later, via the back door and was smuggled into the Green Room without the public realising. Everybody stood to greet her, mouthfuls of Pringles were swallowed, hands discreetly wiped and proffered, smiles fixed.

Ghislaine Curzon conquered the room with a glance. She was wearing an ivory suit in Shantung silk, with recklessly high stilettos, and carried a small purse the same shade of green as the shoes. No jewellery, gloves or hat and hardly any
make-up
. Every man in the room fell in love with her with varying degrees of lust, and all the women gave envious sighs.

Arthur George Threadneedle conferred with the Lord Lieutenant and they counted down the last few minutes. The Lord Lieutenant was in full dress uniform, medals and all, and Threadneedle was glad he’d taken the decision to don his chain of office. He’d had a short chat with Miss Curzon, offered her a sherry (declined), enquired about the health of her father (he was fine, thank you) and left her talking to the MP, happy that she knew who he was without monopolising her company. He caught the eye of his macebearer-cum-chauffeur and indicated that they’d leave in two minutes.

On the stroke of eleven the macebearer hammered the carpeted floor of the Green Room three times with the mayor of Heckley’s symbol of authority and everybody fell silent. Threadneedle positioned himself alongside their guest of honour and glanced round to see if his wife was still with him. He saw her gulping down a schooner of Amontillado, hat already askew, and wondered if he’d done the right thing bringing her along. The macebearer opened the door and led the phalanx of dignitaries out into the airy vaults of the mall and through the pressing crowd who’d come to see this beautiful young woman whom the tabloids had already elevated to royal status and whom one day they would probably destroy. The people looked at her as she walked amongst them and any cynicism they may have harboured was shed like wool off a moulting sheep. Cameras flashed and Ghislaine stopped for a few seconds while a flustered woman came to grips with her mobile phone camera. The woman mumbled a thank you and turned away, hoping she’d pressed the right buttons. A little girl offered a bunch of freesias and Ghislaine crouched down to speak to her.

‘Where’s Kevin?’ a youth asked as she pressed forward, trying to keep moving without being too impolite.

She smiled back at him and said: ‘He couldn’t make it,’ over her shoulder, glad of the banter with someone nearer her own age. Kevin was her pet name for the prince, as revealed in one of the celebrity magazines.

It took fifteen minutes to walk the thirty yards to the podium, but nobody minded. Threadneedle watched her work the crowd, glowing with pride. He was keeping a low profile, staying out of the limelight, but he’d reminded her that he knew her father and asked to be remembered to him. This was a day, God willing, that would go into the town’s archives and would be the high point, the apogee, of Heckley’s romance with royalty, and it happened during his year in office.

John of the security company parted the ropes that surrounded the ceremonial area and let the party through onto the dais. Ghislaine walked over to where the embroidered curtains covered the plaque, like a child’s theatre set halfway up a wall. Threadneedle shuffled alongside her, running through his speech in his mind.

It was to be a short speech. He wasn’t famous for short speeches. Behind his back his fellow councillors referred to him as Gobshite. But he’d taken advice, given it some thought, and today wasn’t a day for a policy statement. The spoken word was ephemeral, wasted on an occasion like this. What mattered was carved in stone behind those curtains. What it said there would be read and noted by visitors to the mall for the next fifty years. Today he’d introduce their distinguished visitor and step aside. She could do the rest.

The macebearer pounded the floor again and the babble of the crowd fell to a murmur. He half turned and nodded to Threadneedle, inviting him to start the proceedings. Threadneedle cleared his throat and tapped the tiny microphone on the lectern with a fingernail, sending a thousand decibels of electronic noise crackling around the mall like a jet fighter.

‘Good morning, ladies and gentlemen,’ he began, adding ‘and children’ as an afterthought. He congratulated himself for remembering the children and forgot what he’d intended to say next. His mind was blank.
Just do it
, he thought.
Get on with it.

‘Today is a great day for Heckley,’ he improvised. ‘Today it’s my pleasure to introduce to you a young lady who has stolen all our hearts …’

This was better. It was starting to flow, until somebody in the crowd shouted for him to hurry up and he lost it again.
Never mind
, he thought,
it’s my name on the plaque behind those curtains.
He looked straight at the YTV camera that was recording the occasion and said: ‘Ladies and gentlemen, I’d like to call on Miss Ghislaine Curzon to open the Curzon Shopping Mall and Conference Centre. Miss Curzon …’ He turned to her, holding out a solicitous arm, and she stepped forward.

‘This one?’ she silently mouthed at him, taking hold of the silken rope.

Threadneedle confirmed it was with a violent nod of the head.

Ghislaine took hold of the rope and leant forward towards the microphone. ‘Good morning,’ she said. ‘It’s lovely to see you all and thank you for making me so welcome. I know Heckley fairly well because I used to come here walking with my father when I was quite small. You’re so lucky to live in this part of the world. We always had tea and scones in a tea shop in the town. My only hope is that a super new development such as this won’t be to the detriment of small, more traditional businesses in the town centre, such as that tea shop.’

The smile slipped from Threadneedle’s face. He didn’t know that she’d ever been within twenty miles of Heckley. ‘Sod the tea shop,’ he hissed to himself, ‘just pull the frigging string.’

‘So now …’ Ghislaine continued, ‘all that’s left is for me to declare the Centre open … and … pull … like … this …’

The curtains parted to reveal the legend they were hiding. The crowd stood in shocked silence for a second before exhaling a collective gasp, followed by an explosion of camera flashes. The Curzon Centre was well and truly open.

‘Fuck?’ I echoed.

‘That’s what it said,’ Superintendent Wood repeated.

‘In red paint?’

‘I told you.’

‘In foot-high letters?’

‘For God’s sake, Charlie, how many more times?’

‘Ha ha ha ha!’

‘It’s not bloody funny.’

‘Oh, it is, Gilbert. It certainly is.’ The tears prickling my eyes were confirmation.

‘The chief constable was there. Everybody was there, and the TV cameras recorded the whole thing. It’s embarrassing, Charlie. Makes us look like a right bunch of turnips.’

‘So what did the glamorous Miss Curzon think of it?’ I asked.

‘That’s the worst bit. She had a giggling fit. They’re trying to say she was hysterical, but I’m told it looked more like she thought it hilarious.’

‘Ha ha! Good for her. Well thanks for that, Gilbert. I’ll be glued to my television tonight when
Look North
is on, to see what they make of it.’

‘Oh no you won’t, Charlie. You’ll be at the Curzon Centre. The chief constable was adamant: he wants you in charge of the investigation.’

I was on holiday. My garden was overgrown and I’d had a letter from the council saying that the neighbours were complaining. I’d borrowed a strimmer and had attacked the worst part at the front and was having a well-earned rest and a glass of shandy when I’d heard the phone ringing.

‘I’m on leave,’ I protested. ‘And I do murders, not graffiti. Give it to young Caton. He’s a royalist.’

‘It’s more serious than graffiti. It was a breach of security. It could have been a bomb. You’re on it, Chas, whether you like it or not.’

‘Tell him I’m on leave, paddling a canoe down the Loire Valley.’

‘He knows you’re at home, gardening.’

‘Damn.’

‘I’ll see you there in an hour.’

‘OK. Hey Gilbert …’

‘Yes, Charlie.’

‘Did he say he wanted Charlie Priest on the job or did he tell you to put your best man on it?’

‘Just get your arse down to the Curzon Centre, asap.’

‘Right, boss. I’m on my way.’

I lingered under the shower until I was rid of all the pollen, creepy-crawlies, dead leaves and other items of flora and fauna that had attached themselves to my body parts like burrs to a sheepdog. I dried myself off and finished the shandy that I’d taken in with me. Suddenly, I felt good. I was clean and refreshed and the little bit of gardening I’d managed to complete had raised my pulse rate out of the lethargy zone. The rest of the garden could wait. I pulled on new jeans, white shirt, jacket and leather slip-ons over the socks with little anchors on them. I didn’t want to look as if I was trying too hard, but there was always the chance that Miss Curzon was still around.

I’d watched the shopping mall and conference centre being built with a mixture of admiration for the vision of the developers and horror at what they were doing to the landscape. This was the first time I’d actually been in the grounds. A big sign welcomed me to the Curzon Centre and another announced that Monkton Civil Engineering were working with the People to build a better Yorkshire. I drove around the perimeter road, past several turn-offs and eventually found a parking space within a reasonable hike of the entrance. I noted the location but had already forgotten it by the time I reached the automatic doors and made my transition into the never-never land of the
out-of
-town shopping experience.

The place was throbbing. Steady streams of customers, almost all female, were converging on the exit. They were spilling off the bottom of
down
escalators, rising out of the floor on
up
escalators and approaching from three other directions, laden with big bags bearing the names of exotic fashion houses. Well, they were exotic to me. Craghoppers is about as designer as I ever get. An equal number of eager punters, plastic friends burning holes in their handbags, were fighting their way in. When I reached the main hall I took my bearings, consulted a
you-are
-here plan of the place and headed towards what was grandly called the Atrium, where I imagined the action had taken place.

The rostrum was cordoned off with police tape and guarded by a uniformed bobby, two female community support officers and four employees of the Centre’s security staff. I pushed my way through the gawpers and showed my ID to the bobby. Halfway up the wall were the curtains that somebody had hastily closed again to hide the forbidden word and I struggled to keep a straight face.