Just her luck to land in a retirement home seemingly entirely populated by criminal investigators. Geoffrey: former detective. Catherine: former forensic pathologist. Margaret: former home secretary. Even Polly, the little old lady who had refused to get into the lift with her: Carol had discovered she was a bestselling crime novelist.
Carol had never understood the appeal of crime fiction. She was like a footballer who didn’t watch football. Why spectate when you can take part?
She needed suspects. Suspects and evidence.
The roof. Whoever killed Desmond had access. There was a key. Who had it? Just one key?
That pointed toward staff.
But out on the lawn was a resident who could have wanted Desmond dead. They had the ability, and Carol had every reason to believe they had the motive.
She put her arms into her cardigan and slipped on some shoes.
Fifteen
The morgue wasn’tfar from Highgate Cemetery. “Convenient,” said Geoffrey. “Town planning. You see, there was a time when this country knew what it was doing.”
They took the bus there, which was a novelty for Margaret. Her working life had been all black cabs and ministerial cars. After Parliament, she’d owned a series of VW Golfs she’d been too scared to drive any farther than the big Sainsbury’s. Thatcher had said that anyone over the age of thirty who found themselves on a bus was a failure. This Margaret wouldn’t have put it like that.
It was quite exciting, actually, sitting on a bus, surrounded by people from different walks of life, none of them knowing that she was on her way to her first autopsy.
A younger woman offered Geoffrey her seat but he insisted on not taking it. Silly, really. Watching him sway around on his eighty-year-old legs, out of pride.
One young man was playing music from his phone. No headphones, just out loud, to the whole bus. A kind thought, butMargaret would have appreciated a say in the choice of song. His tune seemed to be mostly about licking a pussy. Didn’t pussies lick themselves? I suppose that’s one way of giving your cat a bath, thought Margaret.
Margaret was very impressed with the way Catherine directed them to the right place. They were the blue dot on her phone, and as long as the blue dot was going toward the right address, then they were fine. Geoffrey explained that it was all done with satellites, and Margaret explained that as a former minister for science, who’d been responsible for funding half of them, she knew that very well.
“Are you sure they’re expecting us?” said Margaret. “All three of us?”
“Don’t worry,” said Catherine. “It’s all arranged.”
“And they don’t mind us being there?”
“Don’t worry.”
They must have been a funny sight, the three of them, shuffling through the car park, looking for the entrance.
A middle-aged man in a crumpled suit was hunched over, working his way through a cigarette. A younger, tidier lady stood beside him, her blond hair neatly tied back. Margaret recognized them as the police officers who’d come to speak to them in the ballroom the night before.
DCI Bob Beattie stubbed out his cigarette and squinted at the trio of retirees. “Are you lost?”
“We’re looking for the dead bodies,” said Margaret.
“Unless they’ve moved things around since I worked here, I think we should be fine,” said Catherine. “Chief Inspector Beattie,yes? And DS Laura…Sorry, what was it?” Catherine extended her hand.
“Welsh,” said Laura, shaking it.
“Oh, yes. Welsh. You made that terrible joke, didn’t you, Bob? What is that? Is it a nerves thing?”
“Sorry, what’s going on?” said Bob, agitated.
“My name is Catherine. This is Margaret, and this is Geoffrey. We’re residents at Sheldon Oaks and we’re here for Desmond’s autopsy.”
“Hold up,” said Bob. “That’s not…No. I’m sorry, no. That’s not going to happen. This isn’t a public event.”
“The pathologist is Dr. Stephen Turnham, yes? I know Stephen very well. He used to work for me,” said Catherine.
“Okay, but why are you here?” asked Laura. “Isn’t it traditional to wait for the funeral to pay your respects?”
