—
It was asif Carol had stepped back fifty years and entered one of the bars from her youth. Only everyone was now older, grayer, and some of the men’s heads were swollen from decades of booze. But that energy was there. The feeling that anything might happen. Given her new resolution to kill again, truly, it might.
She scoped the room for potential victims.
Polly, the crime writer, sat in a chair knitting, a blanket over her lap. Already nearly at death’s door. All she needed was a nudge. If Carol could somehow get into her bedroom, she could ease her into the afterlife with a pillow over the face. Instead of a kebab on the way home, Carol could treat herself to a murder. But what would be the point? When it came to murder, Carol was one of the greats. Why do something an amateur could? Only the deserving. That had been her general rule. Carol wasn’t about to start murdering harmless old ladies.
Geoffrey. Get him alone and she was sure she could stab him. She could picture it now, the blade entering and reentering hischest, while he explained to her that going through his rib cage was expending too much energy and that she would, in fact, be far more efficient if she went for his neck or abdomen.
Giles was standing at the side of the room, observing. He was always pensive but what about? Getting caught? Who’s to say Giles didn’t murder Desmond? Killing the killer would be a nice touch. She could give him something to really worry about. Lock him in his office and pump it full of gas? Get herself on the roof and take sniper shots at him while he jogged on the Heath? Impractical, no doubt, but the fantasy was pleasant.
Jim. Now, that would present a challenge. She’d be going up against an ex-pro from the men’s game. He deserved a proper ending. Still months until fireworks night, she thought. Let a couple of boxes of rockets off in his bed. Would that do the trick? He was certainly the sort of man to appreciate that kind of creativity. Far-fetched, though, jumping the shark. Was Carol losing her knack for the subtle kill? There was beauty in that.
But the mood in the bar tonight was happy. Killing would make her such a party pooper, and if there was one thing worse than a serial killer, it was a party pooper.
Carol sat at the bar with her Bacardi and Coke, girlishly playing with her straw. Chairs and tables had been moved to the side, leaving an empty makeshift dance floor in the center of the room. Would the evening end with the boys and girls pairing up for a slow dance? There would be no chaperones. Things could get rude.
She spotted Belinda, who, having made such a show when the police had spoken to everyone, now appeared to have moved on to the stage of grief in which you sat on the lap of your new, much younger, boyfriend. Belinda tossed her hair around like anarmless woman with nits. Carol knew her type. A woman who had defined herself by the effect she had on men, desperately clinging to her powers. Fair enough, but what had that display in the hall been about?
I cannot be the murderer because I loved Desmond and he loved me.
Perhaps it was true, but why announce it like that? It was, to Carol, a little suspicious, a case of protesting rather too much. And if it were true, Belinda’s capacity for moving on was impressive. Who was that young man Belinda was now whispering tenderly to? He was out of uniform, but he looked to Carol awfully like one of the restaurant’s waiters. Yes, it was Marco, the handsome Italian. A staff member. Now, there was someone who might have access to a key to the roof.
The Vera Lynn act looked to be a drama graduate with the skills to paysomeof the bills. Not all. Some.
“It’s been such a pleasure to sing to you all this evening. I hope I brought back some memories. I can see you all now, in the underground stations, ’avin’ a li’l singsong. Well, here’s a number that should bring it all back.”
“We’ll Meet Again” started up for the fourth time. I went to see David Bowie, thought Carol.
Some in the room enthusiastically sang along, waving their arms in the air. Carol had noticed among her generation, the “boomers,” a large contingent who seemed to believe that, although they hadn’t been born until after 1945, they had personally won the Second World War.
“Not your kind of music?” Elisa asked Carol, sidling up beside her at the bar.
“Not really, no. I’m having a good time, though.”
“Good. That makes me happy.” Elisa worked her way around the room, smiling at each table, finally stopping next to Belinda and her beau for a chat.
Once fake Vera Lynn had finished, Giles took to the stage. “Wasn’t that fantastic? And such a reasonable rate! All right, ladies and gentlemen, the evening does not finish there. The bar is still open, so do get yourselves refreshed.” Tyler was now making his way to a soundboard on the stage, out of his overalls and in a horrifically bright jumper, which seemed to signify his new nighttime persona. “DJ Tyler has agreed to keep up the entertainment by running a little karaoke so, if you think you can sing, get your name down! Isn’t this a fantastic place to live?”
There was a smattering of applause and a rush for the bar. Giles continued: “Don’t forget, if you have friends who you think would enjoy living here, please put them in touch. We do offer discounted deals for friends of Sheldon Oaks, so don’t be shy. Have a lovely evening!”
The first singer, as Carol had heard was always the case, was Jim. He confidently launched into “Mack the Knife.” Square-jawed, with a nice-fitting suit, the man had charisma. All those years ago, when Carol had met him, he’d had blood down his shirt, but the same easy charm. Carol looked around the room. Some of the ladies staring at Jim had Beatlemania in their eyes. With Desmond gone, there was no doubting who top dog was now. Jim was the home’s alpha.
“Bitch!” Carol turned. It was Belinda, standing over her, furious. Before Carol had a second to think, Belinda threw her glass of wine into her face. Carol caught a taste. Pinot Grigio. Belinda really did have no class at all.
“What the fuck are you talking about, Belinda?”
This had come out of nowhere. Violence was in the air but, like riding a bike, you never forget. This was Carol’s comfort zone.
“You called me a slut.”
Carol had no idea what she was talking about, but the situation was enough for a switch to flick. This was it. Back in business. Time to remount the horse named Murder.
Carol took the small glass bottle of Coke on the bar, flipped it over, and smashed it. In no time at all she had created a weapon good enough to do the job. She, Carol Quinn, elderly woman and subscriber toPuzzles Weeklymagazine, was holding the jagged edge of a broken bottle at the throat of another old lady. Before Carol had a chance to ram it into the side of Belinda’s neck, into Belinda’s carotid artery, before the blood began to spurt out, pretty, like a fountain, she felt a hand grab her arm and heard a voice she’d heard before.
DCI Bob Beattie.
“That’s enough of that. Carol Quinn, I’m arresting you on suspicion of the murder of Sir Desmond Crisp.”
