“WOMEN WHO…KILL!” came booming from the living room.
“Oh, hello,” said Carol.
A flustered Margaret spoke first. “Oh, hello, Carol. I’ve got…I just remembered that I’ve got this lovely big Mary Berry book and I wondered, well, I was wondering if you might like to go through a few of the recipes with me. You know, to see if we’d like to try one out this Tuesday.”
“I see. And why are you here, Geoffrey? To practice your batting? Would you like me to bowl you a few deliveries?”
“We’d like to ask you a few questions,” said Catherine.
“You’ve formed a murder club, haven’t you?”
No one spoke.
“Don’t be shy! You’ve formed a murder club! I’m pleased for you.” Carol had heard about them popping up all over the place. In retirement homes, pub quiz teams. Apparently there was even one in Marlow. CCTV was bad enough. Sticking a knife into a man’s neck on a train without anyone seeing would be a right faff nowadays. Time was when a murderer only had to worry about the police. Now everyone with a minute to spare was an amateur sleuth, watching your every move.
“Well, please, come in. Would you like me to take your snookerball in a sock for you, Catherine, or do you want to keep hold of it, you know, for safety?”
“Um…I’ll just put it in my handbag, if that’s okay.”
“Lovely. Tea? Coffee?”
—
The four ofthem sat around Carol’s kitchen table sipping tea. No one had said much since the business at the door.
“So, I’m guessing you’ve all realized I used to be a serial killer and now you think I killed Desmond. Is that right?”
Catherine cleared her throat. “We don’t know what we think. Desmond may simply have fallen.”
“Or it could have been suicide,” said Margaret.
“Did Desmond look to you like a man who was about to kill himself?” asked Carol. “He was always in a good mood.”
“True,” said Geoffrey.
“People can be very good at hiding their true mental state,” said Margaret. “There was a program about it on Radio 4 the other morning but I had to switch back to music because I didn’t like the presenter’s voice.”
“Desmond didn’t kill himself,” said Carol.
“And how do you know that?” asked Catherine.
“Because he was murdered.”
The air thickened.
“Not by me, but I’m guessing my saying that won’t be enough to persuade you, what with my history. It’s sad, really. There are some things that people just really struggle to get past. Do stop shaking, Margaret. Would you be more comfortable if I kept my hands on the table at all times? Like this?”
“How do you know he was murdered?” asked Geoffrey. “What makes you so sure?”
“My apartment is directly below where he fell. I was sitting on the balcony. Immediately after his tumble—which I happened to see, by the way—I heard someone running on the roof. I’m not a professional investigator like yourself, Geoffrey, and I’m not a part of any murder clubs like you, Margaret and Catherine, but that, to me, seemed awfully like it was the murderer. What we need to find out ishowDesmond got onto the roof andwhyDesmond got onto the roof. Was he led there? If so, by who…” Geoffrey shuffled. “Sorry, Geoffrey, bywhom.”
The room was still.
Carol broke the silence. “Of course, you’ll want to eliminate me from your inquiries, I’m sure.”
“Well, if you don’t mind, that would be nice. Do you have a…what’s the word?”
“Alibi? No. Afraid not. I was sitting on the balcony, but you’d have to take me at my word for that, and I’m getting the impression that my word isn’t quite enough right now.”
