The Indecent Death of a Madam Read online

  ‘You’re not off the hook, Martin.’

  ‘Or do you just like my company more than you care to admit, Detective Inspector?’

  And then came the phone call, which Tamsin took – and was soon wishing she hadn’t. As far as she could tell, amid the hubbub of Costa, it was an accusation of sexual harassment against Peter.

  ‘Sexual harassment? The abbot?’ There was some explanation down the line. ‘I’ll be with you shortly,’ she said, still wondering what exactly they’d been saying.

  ‘An accusation of sexual harassment against the abbot?’ said Martin, rising from the table. ‘Not a good day for you, Tamsin – not a good day at all.’

  And a bad night in Stormhaven was to follow.

  ‘Unforgivably late, Geoff,’

  said the voice on the phone, full of apology. ‘Really I am!’

  ‘A little warning might have been helpful,’ said the estate agent. I mean, it was quite a request! And rather out of the blue, even for a seasoned performer such as himself.

  ‘Yes, I know, I know, Geoff. But sometimes the best ideas come late in the day and you know, something inside me just said we have to have you with us. We really have to have you, you lovely man!’

  ‘Well, I’m glad you thought of me, of course I am,’ said Geoff, at ease behind his desk and warming to the call. ‘And you know I’ll do anything for the kids.’

  He said it so often he was beginning to believe it; though he hadn’t done much for his own.

  ‘I know you will, Geoff, it’s in your bloody DNA! And it’s a council thing really, with the mayor and all that, but I just had to mention you, I hope you’ll forgive me. Of course, everyone thought it was a smashing idea – if we could somehow get the great showman to agree.’

  ‘Well . . .’

  ‘We did consider violence, obviously!’

  Geoff laughed heartily. ‘I just think it’s great the place is being used in this way,’ said the now glowing estate agent, ‘and I’d be delighted to be a small part of the evening – as long as it’s not too small! And I mean, if it’s for charity . . .’

  ‘Every penny.’

  Geoff paused for a moment, surveying his office, from which he ran the business – his own business. But he wasn’t thinking about property as he spoke on the phone. He was thinking of tonight and waking up the showman within.

  ‘I haven’t done my clown turn for a while,’ he said. ‘So I may be a little rusty . . . though people do say it’s one of my best.’

  ‘That I can confirm.’

  ‘It’s amazing what a little greasepaint can do,’ he remarked, feeling the excitement in his veins. His evening was looking up, particularly with the mayor involved. It was always good if the mayor was there – more coverage in the press, better class of audience. And he had the time, plenty of time . . . evenings were not completely satisfactory at present. He’d been on the computer more since Mandy had gone, on websites where he shouldn’t be, because you had to fill the time and he liked his time well filled . . . and then filled again. And he was thinking of his clown act, and wondering if he might extend the performance in some way. ‘I could bring along my unicycle and the plate-spinning gear if you wanted.’

  ‘That sounds very good. It’s going to be a memorable evening, Geoff. But remember to keep it secret.’

  ‘Oh, yes!’

  ‘No telling anyone. I want the surprise to be magnificent!’

  ‘Message understood.’

  And with the details sorted, Geoff put down the phone with a large smile. Millie, his bouncy receptionist – this is how he referred to her – pushed open his door and asked him if he wanted a cup of tea.

  ‘I’d like a glass of champagne, Millie!’

  ‘I’m not sure we’ve got any bubbly!’ she replied, nervous and excited. Was he serious about the champagne? ‘Have you had some good news, Mr Berry?’

  ‘You could say that.’

  She had heard his wife had walked out on him. Perhaps she was coming back?

  ‘Would you like me to buy some? It’s quite cheap in Morrisons. You know, the Cava stuff.’ She’d like a little wander round the shops.

  ‘No, Millie – I jest, me thinks. Tea must suffice!’

  ‘Sorry?’ What was he saying? You didn’t always know what Mr Berry wanted. He could become someone different every day, as if he wasn’t too sure who he was himself. He did a lot of acting, so perhaps that’s how it was with them lot. She thought Geoff was a bit of a joke, to be honest.

  ‘Just a cup of tea, Millie . . . and some chocolate biscuits, perhaps.’

  ‘Yes, Mr Berry.’

  Millie withdrew smirking, made a discreet ‘nutter!’ face to one of her colleagues, who laughed, and went to the small office kitchen where the kettle was housed.

  While alone in his office, Geoff enjoyed a moment of well-being, a singular sense of rightness about the world . . . well, his world, at least, because things were pretty good right now. He surveyed his kingdom with some pride. He had an office, a company with four staff and a very decent property. And he had photos – of his kids, of happier days, of his performances down the years, including his famous Fagin turn in a 2004 production of Oliver!, which the local press had been somewhat ecstatic about. And on top of all that, he had pretty young Millie asking him if he wanted tea every day. He’d keep her . . . he liked the way she looked at him.

  So yes, young Geoffrey had come a long way since his early days as a property hustler . . . rather more reputable now. Definitely more reputable! But everyone has to start somewhere. Everyone has some shade in their past, Geoff always said. You have to start somewhere, and it’s not always pretty. You can’t make an omelette without breaking eggs.

  And let’s be honest, they’d mainly been loonies, who wouldn’t know a palace from a hen-coop, so no harm done . . . and much money made. Kerching! They’d been rehoused from the asylum, that was the main thing; that was the bottom line. And who did the quality of accommodation really hurt, apart from the fine consciences of the bleeding hearts brigade? And Martin was absolutely right: Geoff was something of a local celebrity. People approached him in the street, and sometimes he performed in front of the mayor – and this was why he was smiling today, why he spoke of champagne. A great sense of well-being was running through his estate agent’s veins . . .

  ‘Sexual harassment,’

  said Tamsin. ‘You mentioned sexual harassment.’

  ‘I did.’

  ‘So what exactly do you mean?’

  She sat in Blessings’ front room, having again declined the offer of tea.

  ‘I’m not claiming sexual harassment, Detective Inspector. You mustn’t put words in my mouth.’ She’d made herself tea, and sat with it now, facing Tamsin across the room. It felt like a courtroom, with a touch of Ghana. ‘I’m just noting how quickly the scent of scandal got you round here.’

  It was dark outside and things were not much clearer inside. What was she saying?

  ‘So you’re withdrawing the claim?’ asked Tamsin.

  ‘I never made the claim.’ Tamsin stared at her. How could she say that? She’d as good as made the claim, over the phone. Or was it different for lawyers? ‘I merely ran the claim by you, so to speak, the idea of a claim . . . which is not the same as making it. And you’re here because you were worried, because such a claim – were it made – could be a very damaging allegation, particularly for this murder enquiry. Who wouldn’t be worried by an allegation made by a senior figure in the legal world? Especially when the object of that allegation, someone on the investigation team, had links to the deceased? What a mess that would be!’

  Tamsin didn’t like the power play at work and neither did she know what the judge was talking about. It left her defensive when she preferred attack.

  ‘And the point of all this?’ she asked.

  ‘I don’t know if the abbot has spoken with you.’

  ‘About what?’

  ‘All I’m saying is that I expect my conve
rsation with him to remain private as it has no bearing on this case.’

  What conversation? wondered Tamsin. Was this the conversation about Blessings wanting a child?

  ‘The abbot is a very private person, Mrs N’Dayo.’

  ‘Then that makes two of us.’

  ‘He’s not a gossip.’

  ‘Then the matter is closed.’

  ‘But there was no “matter”. At least, not from where I’m sitting.’

  ‘And we’ll talk no more of counter-allegation.’ The words lingered in the air.

  ‘If I thought that was a threat . . .’

  ‘It is no threat! Please, Detective Inspector!’ She attempted a laugh. ‘That would be a quite ill-founded assumption from the presented facts.’ She calmed herself, regathered, took a sip of her tea. She then smiled. ‘Rather, consider it a celebration of peace, an affirmation of the good character of the abbot.’

  But Tamsin was not celebrating. She was angry. She was being used by this woman as some lackey go-between to keep the abbot’s mouth shut about, well, whatever it was that had passed between them. She needed to find out what that was. Had he held something back? And if he had, why? Too busy with his massages . . .

  ‘But perhaps there is something I could usefully share with you, Detective Inspector, to make your visit worthwhile. Off the record, of course.’

  ‘Yes?’

  ‘My lodger – now former lodger – Francisco Cornwell. Catholic family.’

  ‘It’s no longer illegal, I believe.’

  ‘You may want to watch him.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘He’s a troubled boy, who’s done time. I myself put him behind bars, as you know, so I’m quite aware of his rather sordid story. But I hope I’ve done my best for him since then, giving him a home.’

  ‘I’m sure you had your reasons.’

  Tamsin did not wish to encourage her righteousness. Charity was never free, not in her experience.

  ‘Well, I asked him to leave after he made threats against me.’

  ‘What sort of threats?’

  ‘It doesn’t matter, this is not a formal complaint.’ Here she goes again, thought Tamsin, everything as rumour . . . and unattributable. ‘But he’s now homeless, I suppose, and hanging around with prostitutes, from what I can gather.’

  ‘Do you know which prostitutes?’

  ‘They’re all alike to me, Detective Inspector, all of the sluts. And he’ll need money, of course, but I’m not sure where he’ll be getting it. You can see the dangers, I’m sure.’

  ‘I can see the dangers in many situations, Mrs N’Dayo, but until a crime is committed—’

  ‘Stormhaven may not be a good place for Francisco at present. That’s all I’m saying. He’s an unreliable presence in the community, to put it mildly; so maybe a police word in his ear? You’ll know this better than me, Detective Inspector, but prevention is better than cure, surely? I’m just passing this on . . . informally, of course.’

  ‘The matron’s outfit,’

  said Cherise.

  ‘What of it?’

  ‘Can I borrow it? He’s asked for the matron’s outfit later.’

  Katrina nodded absentmindedly. She felt like the girl’s mother sometimes, really she did, providing clothes for the latest fancy dress. Cherise could have the matron’s outfit, it was washed and ready. It helped that they were the same size and could share these things. Costumes were requested more by middle-aged clients, and there were plenty of those in Stormhaven. But there was something about Cherise that rang alarm bells for Katrina.

  ‘You don’t look yourself, Cherise, you look – are you all right? I mean, you do know him?

  Katrina didn’t want a row. She just wanted the girl to be sensible and Cherise was not always as sensible as she could be.

  ‘Of course I know ’im! He’s a nice man, bit of a sweetie really. Very polite. Likes a good whippin’.’

  ‘So he must be a judge.’

  ‘I think I’m like his social worker in a way.’

  Katrina laughed in derision. ‘You – his social worker? That is what you think?’

  ‘Only bein’ funny.’

  Why did Kat have to take everything so seriously?

  ‘So what’s his name?’

  ‘How would I know his name? He’s secret squirrel, he is! He’s a soldier man, I know that.’

  A soldier man? And now Katrina’s stomach was churning.

  ‘His social worker, if he had one, they would know his name, I think, Cherise.’ She spoke reprovingly. ‘You are nothing to him, if you do not know his name.’

  ‘What’s got into you all of a sudden?’

  ‘We do not know their names, we never do, so we are something different. Not their social workers, I think – something hidden away and shameful. Not precious.’

  Katrina was never far from shame; it was always a short journey for her. Cherise had learnt this, so she was hardly surprised now. Katrina bloody hated herself and moved quickly into self-flagellation, always had, ever since she’d known her. She beat herself more than the clients! But what was the point of it? For Cherise, there was no point. Why punish yourself? It was probably the Catholic thing – but really, what was the point?

  ‘We know how they treat us, Kat,’ she said kindly. ‘We don’t need to know any more than that . . . and maybe it’s better we don’t, eh?’

  ‘Better for who?’ said Katrina, and it was probably at that moment that she decided she wanted out – to be out of this trade. She’d look around, consider other things. Yes, it was time for change, a fresh start. She’d found a man, a man who liked her. She was sure of that, and he could change his ways; he could change. She would help him to change.

  ‘And I mean, “Cherise” is hardly my real name, is it!? It’s not like any of us are telling the truth. I don’t know his name, he don’t know mine. So we’re quits.’

  ‘Katrina is my name.’

  ‘Is it? I never knew.’

  ‘So what is your real name?’

  ‘Mine?’

  There was hesitation.

  ‘Is it so hard to tell me?’

  They’d never had this conversation and Cherise was struggling. She felt safer with ‘Cherise’. It was a protection, like a coat in the cold wind. It meant that in a way she wasn’t here. To expose the soft flesh beneath it, to reveal her childhood name, the name she grew up with . . .

  The doorbell rang.

  ‘Saved by the bell,’ Katrina said drily as she got up to welcome her next client. He was new, had sounded young on the phone. She didn’t know what he wanted, he hadn’t specified. Sometimes they didn’t know themselves and had to be guided, like your first day at school.

  She opened the door. He was mid-twenties and nervous. Definitely a first-timer.

  ‘I have an appointment,’ he said.

  ‘First time?’

  ‘Maybe,’ he said, blushing.

  ‘It won’t kill you,’ said Katrina with a smile. ‘Follow me.’ And then turned and led him upstairs, having looked him briefly in the eye. She’d start with a bath, with ‘hunt the soap’.

  But there was more on her mind than bath games tonight . . . a great deal more.

  The abbot felt awe and fear

  as he gazed on the photocopied list of names. One name in particular stood out . . .

  The document lay on the fold-up table in the Stormhaven nick, placed there by PC Chris Richards, fresh back from the East Sussex Records Office.

  ‘An easy find?’ asked Peter, settling down on the uncomfortable chair.

  ‘Easy? You must be joking.’

  ‘I’m sorry.’

  ‘The Bybuckle Asylum records – should anyone ever need to know – are twenty-five feet in width, file after dusty file. Thick, clinging dust, the sort that’s hard to get off the hands. Oh, and hidden away in the farthest corner, away from the light.’

  ‘In death, as in life.’

  ‘I think they were about to be thrown out, a little
past their sell-by date.’

  ‘I’ve never believed in those, Chris, neither for coleslaw nor asylum files.’

  ‘So what are you looking for?’

  There before them lay the final roll-call of residents in the Bybuckle Asylum, ten days before its closure. The remarkable thing was how many were still there at this late stage. He’d read of some panic in finding them accommodation before the deadline for eviction, which was what it had been. Peter’s eyes moved slowly down the list, resting on each name in turn, trying in some way to honour them. One hundred and thirty-seven patients: Maisie Patricia Eleanor Donaldson, Frank Edward Styles, George Herbert Stanforth, Maud Ann Sprackley . . .

  ‘Must have been a Dunkirk-like evacuation in the final days,’ said Richards, who had a degree in history.

  ‘Though less glorious, perhaps, much less glorious. It was a fairly brutal clear-out.’

  ‘I suppose care in the community had to be better, though.’ PC Richards liked to look on the bright side of life, otherwise things could get a bit dark. Life was better sunny side up; he had to believe that.

  ‘If it had existed, yes,’ said the abbot.

  ‘How do you mean?’

  ‘Care in the community didn’t exist, Chris. It was a sound bite, a mere phrase, an ideal – it didn’t exist as anything other than a slogan. So most of these ones,’ he said, pointing at the list, ‘the last to go – the incurables – well, they’d have drifted into homelessness. Not easy for their loved ones to behold . . . ah, here we are, here we are. Oh my goodness!’

  He ran a highlighter pen through one of the names. His hand shook slightly at the discovery.

  ‘Is that them?’ asked Richards.

  ‘I think so,’ he said as one reaching out for the Holy Grail. And Peter felt both awe and fear.