It led the six o’clock news that night. The bleeped tape was played, accompanied by an interview with the boy and his parents. It was as bad as bad could be. Gavin was an angel. That year he’d completed a fun run in his wheelchair to raise money for a local hospice. They showed pictures of him beaming in his medal with Margaret’s words “fat little shit” over the top. Jimmy Savile, then still a national treasure, was interviewed, saying Margaret had let her country down. She was fired beforeNews at Ten.
Margaret had, she felt, done more good in office than bad. She had tried her best, but the sad truth was that, in the days before some of the current crop of politicians rewrote the rule book, if you were broadcast calling a disabled eight-year-old a fat little shit on national television, your career was over.
After Margaret had shot herself in the foot, made the goal she’d devoted every waking hour to an impossibility, her life got better. Freed from ambition, she had the space to be, to her own astonishment, happy, and being happy gave her the space to be a nicer person. In short, with the constant pressure gone, she didn’t call children fat little shits anymore. Even when that was exactly what they were.
People stopped shouting at her in the street after about three months. She made a few appearances on TV—Celebrity Catchphrase,Celebrity Swim School—as light entertainment, the sceneof her death, became the scene of her resurrection. The public, who had always seemed to hate her, now liked her. A meaningless life was a virtuous one. Do nothing of any value, engage in only trivial things, and you will be rewarded for it.
Now she enjoyed her simple life in Sheldon Oaks. Baking, eating, gossiping. She hadn’t opened a newspaper in years; her radio never left golden oldies.
But lately she had noticed a restlessness. An itch. She wasn’t dead yet, but was she allowing herself to fade away? Was she in danger of drowning in shallow waters? She had a seat in the House of Lords but knew that politics was not, could not be, the answer. All the same, she needed something to sink her dentures into.
Geoffrey and Catherine entered and sat at her table.
Could this be it?
Nine
“All right, Catherine,Margaret. I’m going to write something down. Please be aware of our surroundings. We do not want to cause a scene.”
Geoffrey took a small police notebook from his inside jacket pocket. Margaret dabbed some pastry crumbs off her plate and put them into her mouth. As soon as Catherine’s brownie had arrived, Margaret had wondered if she’d made the wrong choice.
Geoffrey wrote down one word, looked over his shoulder, and then placed the notebook at the center of the table for Catherine and Margaret to read.
“MURDER?” said Margaret.
“Shhh!”
She said it lower this time. “Murder?”
“Are we ruling out suicide?” asked Catherine. “Or just a fall? Why murder?”
“I’m ruling nothing out.” Geoffrey took the notebook andscribbled again. He slowly slid it back to the center of the table, reveling in the tension.
“CAROL? YOU THINKCAROLKILLED DESMOND?”
“I think perhaps, Geoffrey,” said Catherine, “that if you just talk to us, rather than writing things down, then Margaret will stop yelling them out.”
Margaret leaned forward, whispering this time, “You think Carol killed Desmond?”
“I think it’s certainly a possibility. Here’s what we know: Deaths, at Sheldon Oaks, are not a rare occurrence. We are, all of us, in life’s final chapter.”
“Really, Geoffrey,” said Catherine. “I’d rather not dwell on that, if you don’t mind. I feel I have a ways to go.”
“Your skin is looking lovely today, Catherine.”
“Thank you, Margaret.”
“Is it a cream?”
“Could be. I have some samples from Liberty, if you’d like.”
“It’s diet, genes, and a lack of direct sunlight,” snapped Geoffrey. “Now, as I was saying, there are plenty of deaths at Sheldon but they’re all pretty much the same. Natural causes or whatnot.”
“Strokes. Lot of strokes this year,” said Margaret.
“Whatisunusual is people falling off of roofs. And our first such death comes when? Shortly after we gain a new resident who happens to be a convicted killer. And who is the first to supposedly witness that death?That very same killer.”
“Carol,” said Margaret firmly, warming to his theme.
