Every Trick in the Book E-Book

Bernard O'Keeffe

• Herausgeber: Muswell Press
• Kategorie: Gesellschafts- und Liebesromane
• Sprache: Englisch

Seitenzahl: 439

Veröffentlichungsjahr: 2024

Beschreibung

Sex, Money, Drugs…DI Garibaldi is on the case. DI Garibaldi and his team are shocked when they discover that local writer, Ben Joseph, has been killed in the same manner and at the same location as the victim in his crime novel 'Schooled in Murder', the night after appearing at the Barnes Book Festival. It transpires the author is in fact a retired private school teacher who has been blackmailing several of his colleagues. As the police delve into the links between fiction and reality, the question looms: could the key to the writer's murder be hidden with the pages of his own novel?

Leseprobe

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EVERY TRICK IN THE BOOK

Bernard O’Keeffe

Contents

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vFor Roryvi

1

Prologue

During his long teaching career Alex Ballantyne liked to point out to his pupils that ‘ironic’ was one of the most misused words in the English language.

He would play them the Alanis Morissette song of the same name, give them the lyrics, and show how the word was being incorrectly applied throughout. Rain on your wedding day wasn’t ironic – it was just bad luck. Likewise ten thousand spoons when you need a knife. Or a traffic jam when you’re already late.

The Canadian singer, Mr Ballantyne would say, just didn’t get it and, being a learned man who valued knowledge and truth and who was keen that all he taught should do likewise, he would go on to give precise definitions of the way ‘ironic’ could properly be used. Had his pupils been paying careful attention they would have left his classroom with a clear grasp of irony in all its manifestations – verbal, dramatic, situational, historical, even Socratic.

And had Alex Ballantyne still been able to speak he would have been able to tell any St Jude’s pupils who happened to be passing in the early hours of that July morning what, if any, kind of irony could be applied to his current situation – whether being found dead in the reeds of Barnes Pond only hours after his farewell party, an occasion marked by so many wishes for a happy, healthy and long retirement, could correctly be described as ‘ironic’.2

Everyone who heard the news, both at the school where he had taught and in the community in which he had lived, was appalled. That the newly retired English teacher should be found dead was shocking. That his death should be regarded as suspicious, and possibly murder, was unimaginable.

On this, the first day of the summer holidays, St Jude’s School would usually be a place of peace and tranquillity, but today it was bustling with activity. Detectives were questioning the head and members of his senior management team, gathering information about the man who had so recently been a member of staff. Journalists and news crews hovered outside the gates. And phones were busy. Everyone connected to the school – teachers, parents and pupils – was in excited discussion, trying to work out exactly what had happened to Alex Ballantyne and, more significantly, why.

The community of Barnes was equally traumatised. To see police cars parked on the green next to the pond and a forensic tent erected in the heart of the village came as a huge shock to all who had chosen to live here because it was such a quiet area, but particularly to those who had regarded the deceased as a friend and neighbour and could think of no possible reason why anyone should want to kill him.

But it would be untrue to say that there was universal dismay at the demise of Alex Ballantyne. Though none would say so in public, where the only sentiments expressed were those of sadness at the loss of a good man, there were some who were pleased he was no longer alive, hoping that with him had died secrets they would like to stay forever hidden.

(from Schooled in Murder by Ben Joseph)

3

1

Garibaldi looked forward to three things on a Saturday night – a takeaway curry, MatchoftheDay and sex. Not always in that order, and with the third not always guaranteed.

Although he loved reading and never went anywhere without a book, he’d never been one for literary talks. He’d been to a few in the past but had been so disappointed that those who had written books he loved could talk about them so badly that he had for a long time steered clear of them.

So it came as a surprise to find himself, on this particular Saturday evening, sitting in the audience at the OSO listening to a writer talking about his latest book.

It came as even more of a surprise to find himself enjoying it.

‘Thank you so much for coming along this evening,’ said the man on stage, drawing things to a conclusion. He was wearing chinos, a blue jacket, a striped button-down shirt and a grey scarf. It was the scarf, Garibaldi decided, that made him look like a writer. ‘And thanks in particular to the wonderful organisers of the Barnes Book Festival. I’m thrilled and humbled by the way the book has been 4received – and, of course, by the way it’s sold – and I’m particularly pleased to have been able to talk in the area in which it is set. And what a delight it is to see so many familiar faces in the audience.’

Garibaldi looked round the room. He too saw many familiar faces. Not of people he knew, but of people he felt he knew from having walked past them so many times at local haunts – the Farmers’ Market, the Bull’s Head, the Red Lion, the Olympic Cinema, the tables outside Feast, the independent coffee shops, the benches by the pond and here, the Old Sorting Office Arts Centre. All radiating the Barnes self-confidence that bordered on smugness.

A woman stepped forward on the stage. Garibaldi recognised her as the owner of the local bookshop.

‘Well, wasn’t that great! A particularly fitting way to round off the Barnes Book Festival because not only is the author local but so is his book. Ben will be signing copies in the foyer, all provided by the Barnes Bookshop, so do get yourself a copy if you haven’t already got one. And if you already do have one then get one for a friend! And, once again, a big thank you to Ben Joseph.’

The audience broke into applause.

Rachel turned to Garibaldi. ‘What do you reckon, then?’

Garibaldi smiled and gave a nod of approval. ‘Not as bad as I feared.’

‘So you might get round to reading it then?’ Rachel held up her copy of SchooledinMurder.

Garibaldi reached out for it. ‘You know what? I might even start it tonight.’

Rachel snatched her hand away. ‘OK. I’ll just get it signed.’

‘Signed?’

‘Why not? It’s nice to have signed copies.’ 5

Garibaldi smiled, unconvinced. ‘OK,’ he said, getting up from his chair. ‘I’ll get some drinks.’

When he came back from the bar Rachel was standing by the window, book in hand, looking out onto Barnes Green.

‘So what did the great man have to say?’ said Garibaldi.

Rachel opened the book at the title page and held it up in front of him. ‘I told him I was a teacher and he wrote this.’

Garibaldi looked at the inscription –

To Rachel – one of the noblest profession.

‘Bit rude, isn’t it?’

‘What do you mean?’

Garibaldi peered closer at the writing. ‘One of the oldest profession?’

Rachel pulled the book back and checked the inscription. ‘Very funny.’

Garibaldi handed her the wine and held up his whisky. ‘Cheers!’ he said, clinking her glass.

‘Cheers! Glad you came?’

‘I had my doubts.’

‘Tell me about it. It was like I’d suggested a visit to the dentist.’

‘Well, you know how it is, there’s something about Saturday night …’ He checked his watch. ‘And it’s still pretty early, so …’

He trailed off and sipped his whisky, encouraged by Rachel’s slight nod.

He took her hand as they left the OSO and led her to a bench by the pond where they sat for a few moments, saying nothing, looking at the ducks on the still, dark water. Then they walked along the High Street in the direction of the river and turned off for Rutland Court, 6Garibaldi’s mind very much on the third of his Saturday night pleasures.

When he reached for his key at the front door to the flat he heard a voice behind him.

‘Dad?’

At first he thought he had imagined it.

‘Dad?’

There it was again – louder this time and definitely real.

He turned towards it. ‘Alfie! What—?’

‘Something’s happened.’

‘Are you OK?’

‘Yeah, I’m fine, but—’

‘What is it?’

‘Can I stay here tonight?’

Garibaldi looked at Rachel. ‘Of course you can. But what … why?’

He pushed the door open and followed Rachel and Alfie inside. Alfie threw his rucksack on the couch, took off his coat and sat down with a heavy sigh.

‘Why don’t I make up the spare bed?’ said Rachel, heading to the tiny second bedroom.

‘Sure,’ said Garibaldi. He waited for Rachel to shut the door behind her and turned to Alfie. ‘Drink?’

‘Yeah,’ said Alfie. ‘Anything.’

Garibaldi went to the kitchen and came back with two whiskies.

‘Take your time,’ he said. ‘Whatever you want to tell me.’

Alfie took a big slug of his whisky. ‘OK. I’ve had a row. A big row.’

A big row? Who with? Alicia? Kay?

‘I mean, what a prick!’

Or Dom?

Was this the moment Garibaldi had been longing for? 7Had Alfie at last reached the conclusion he himself had come to many years ago about the man his wife had left him for?

‘Look, Alfie,’ he said. ‘Remember one thing. You’re always welcome here. And you can stay for as long as you want.’

As he said the words Rachel emerged from the second bedroom. ‘All sorted,’ she said, giving Alfie a smile.

One of the many things Garibaldi loved about Rachel was the way she got on so well with Alfie. He knew she would have no problem with him staying.

Why, then, did he feel so uneasy at the prospect?

Maybe it was the uncertainty. He had yet to find out what the row was about and, suddenly conscious that a flat comfortable for two could sometimes seem crowded for three, he had no idea how long Alfie would be staying.

8

2

Those locals who like to think of Barnes as a cosy community that has more in common with the country than the capital, call the pond that lies at its heart the ‘Village Pond’ or simply ‘The Pond’. Some, in recognition of the creatures most often seen on its waters, call it the ‘Duck Pond’ while others, mainly outsiders, follow the lead of Transport for London’s naming of the nearest bus stop, and call it ‘Barnes Pond’.

Recent arrivals (and well-established residents would consider recent to include anyone who had moved to Barnes within the last twenty years) have no idea that the pond as it is today looks nothing like the pond it once was. They have no sense that the original Barnes Pond was simply that – a pond. There were no gravel areas on which parents could stand with their children and feed the ducks. There were no fences and serried steps and there was not much foliage, no clumps of reeds round the edges. Nor was there much wildlife beyond a few ducks. Recent arrivals will have no idea that the original pond mysteriously emptied itself in 2001 and that when it was refilled two years later, reshaped, remodelled and landscaped with advice from the Wildfowl & Wetlands Trust, it was another thing entirely. 9

This was certainly the case with Tom Murray, who liked to take Pandora to feed the ducks every Sunday morning. It was a well-established ritual, his way of giving his wife a break and of having special time with his daughter. He would get up when Pandora woke, put her in front of some kids’ cartoons, give her breakfast and then take her out, allowing Tilly a lie-in.

He’d take Pandora in the pushchair to Gail’s, pick up coffee and a pastry and head back to the pond to his favourite bench. Not one of those by the gravel area facing the Sun Inn but one of those to the side of Barnes Green Day Centre looking across the pond to Essex House, the location of the Saturday Farmers’ Market. He would turn the pushchair so that Pandora could look out onto the water between the clumps of tall reeds, sit down on the bench, sip his coffee and tuck into his pastry.

Pandora was happy to sit in her pushchair and look out for the ducks, who, sensing that food was in the offing, would start to drift over. And Tom was happy to sit there for a few minutes, enjoying the peace. This side of the pond was not as public as the gravel area and there was less chance here of being disturbed by other early morning baby walkers. Whenever any of them met up together, particularly other early-morning dads like himself, the conversation was unbearable.

When he had finished his pastry Tom got off the bench, lifted Pandora out of her pushchair and held her hand as he led her down the steps to the water’s edge. He opened the bag of food and threw some towards the ducks that had gathered in anticipation. Pandora gave a delighted laugh as the ducks darted towards the bread. Tom handed her some and she threw it in herself, leaning close to the water as he held her arm tightly, a smile beaming on her face as she saw the ducks eating what she had given them. 10

Tom marvelled at how much pleasure could be derived from something he had done himself when he was young, something his parents and their parents had probably done before him. Despite laptops, phones, screens and technology, this simple bond with nature remained as strong as ever. Nothing had diminished the pleasure that could be gleaned from something as simple as feeding ducks on the village pond.

He crouched down beside his daughter, and as he did, something caught his eye in the clump of tall reeds to his right. At first he couldn’t work out what it was. It looked like an item of clothing – a jacket or a coat perhaps. He leaned closer, keeping a firm grip on Pandora and tried to get a better look. Yes, it was definitely clothing. Maybe someone had thrown it into the pond last night. He knew that these benches were popular with late night drinkers, particularly teenagers, and he had often, on these Sunday morning duck-feeds, found evidence of their Saturday night revelry – empty cans, discarded pizza boxes, cigarette ends. He sometimes didn’t look too closely at what had been left on the ground for fear of what he might discover.

When the food had gone and Pandora had seen enough of the ducks Tom turned back to the pushchair, looking to the left to get a better view of what had been thrown into the reeds.

He was right. It was a jacket.

But as he peered closer he realised it wasn’t just a jacket.

He put Pandora in the pushchair, secured her straps and walked back to the pond’s edge to check he’d seen correctly.

He stood by the reeds to look down, and his suspicions were confirmed.

It wasn’t just a jacket.

It was a body. 11

Tom looked back at Pandora and then turned again to look at the body, face down in the reeds.

‘Let’s get you home,’ he said to Pandora as he took hold of the pushchair and walked away from the pond. As he passed the other parents on duck-feed duty he heard nothing of their conversation. His mind was set on getting his daughter home safely, telling his wife what he had found and working out whether there was any way of avoiding phoning the police.

‘Hello, I’m Johnny Cash.’

Garibaldi sat in the audience looking at the great American country singer. The BookFest had really pulled off a coup this year. How on earth did they get Johnny Cash to come to Barnes?

‘I’d like to sing you a new song,’ said the Man in Black. ‘It’s called, “You left me for that asshole”. And it goes like this …’

He started to pick at his guitar and over the steady rhythm began to sing:

When I was down, when I was blue.

When nothing in the world seemed true

You walked right out and took my son

To live with that asshole.

Johnny Cash looked out at the OSO audience. They were on their feet, clapping in time and singing along as he broke into the chorus:

That asshole. That asshole.

Youleftmeforthatasshole.12

Garibaldi stood up and joined in the clapping and singing, swaying from side to side and punching the air on each syllable of ‘asshole’.

He felt something in his side. Was it an elbow? He turned to the woman next to him. It couldn’t have been her. Both her arms were raised above her head as she clapped along.

There it was again. Definitely an elbow.

He turned again. The woman didn’t respond. She was lost in Johnny Cash.

Another poke in the ribs. This time with words.

‘Jim?’

He turned again to the woman. She was still singing along.

‘Jim?’

He recognised the voice now.

‘Rachel?’

‘Wake up, Jim.’

He opened his eyes and turned to the voice. Rachel was looking at him, her head propped up by an elbow on her pillow.

Garibaldi yawned and rubbed his eyes.

‘You were singing,’ said Rachel.

‘Singing?’

‘Yeah. In your sleep. Your eyes were shut but you were singing. Well, when I say singing it was more of a wail.’

‘What was I—?’

‘Nothing I recognised. All I could make out was the word “asshole”.’

It came back to him. Johnny Cash. The OSO. Barnes BookFest. Alfie.

‘It was a dream.’

‘Sounds like an interesting one.’ 13

‘Yeah. I—’

‘Your phone’s been ringing.’

‘My phone?’

‘Yeah. In the living room.’

What was his phone doing in the living room? He always kept it by his bed.

‘Alfie,’ he said. ‘Alfie was here, wasn’t he?’

‘I turned in to let you talk. I don’t know when you got to bed but I guess it was late. What happened? Is everything OK?’

‘He had a row with Dom.’

‘I see.’

Garibaldi lifted himself up on his elbows. ‘And he wants to stay here for a while.’

‘OK.’

‘I’m sorry.’

‘You don’t have to apologise …’

‘I mean, I’m glad he came here, that he felt he could—’

‘It’s OK. Really.’

‘This isn’t exactly a big flat, is it?’

‘Look. He can stay here as long as he needs to. It’s fine.’

‘But—’

‘What was the row about?’

Garibaldi hauled himself up and sat back against the headboard.

‘He hasn’t been specific, but something Dom said clearly got to him.’

‘And Kay?’

‘Alfie didn’t mention her.’

Rachel pointed at the door. ‘Maybe that was her on the phone.’

Garibaldi threw on a dressing gown and went into the living room, wondering what kind of state he must have 14been in to leave his phone there. He glanced at the closed door of the spare room and thought of Alfie behind it. He’d slept there many times before, but not often since Rachel moved in.

His phone rang as he reached for it. He picked it up, thinking Rachel was probably right and it would be Kay. His ex-wife always rang him (and blamed him) whenever anything went wrong with Alfie.

It was another name on the screen.

‘Hi boss.’

‘Jim,’ said DCI Deighton.’ Where are you? I’ve been ringing all morning.’

‘I’m at home.’

‘Why didn’t you pick up?’

‘I was in the bath.’

‘Pretty long bath.’

‘I was pretty dirty.’

‘We’ve got a body.’

‘Where?’

‘A stone’s throw from where you’re speaking. The pond.’

‘The pond?’

‘Barnes Pond. Isn’t that just round the corner from you?’

‘Yes, but—’

‘We need you there.’

‘OK.’

‘You don’t even need to cycle. You can walk. So let’s get on it.’

Garibaldi looked at the phone in his hand, wondering whether he’d heard correctly. A body in Barnes Pond?

It was like hearing that the ravens had left the castle or that the sun hadn’t risen. 15

*

Garibaldi took a back route, going down Grove Road and cutting through Essex Court. As soon as he reached the pavement of Station Road he could see the police cars and vans and the forensic tent erected on the other side of the pond.

People stood in huddles, looking in the direction of the tent, pointing, turning, speculating. Curious children were being shepherded away from the scene by concerned parents wanting to protect them from whatever atrocity had been committed.

DS Gardner walked towards Garibaldi in a forensic suit. ‘Where’ve you been?’

‘I missed a few calls.’

Gardner shook her head. ‘Sod’s Law. A murder literally on your doorstep and you turn up late.’

‘What is it?’

‘Male. Sixties. Found by a bloke this morning feeding the ducks with his daughter.’

‘ID?’

‘Called Tom Murray. Comes here every Sunday morning.’

Garibaldi rolled his eyes. Did she do it deliberately?

‘I meant the body.’

‘Right.’ Gardner flicked open her notebook. ‘Liam Allerton. Lives locally. Cambridge Road.’

‘What happened to him?’

‘Difficult to tell. Doc Stevenson’s looking at him. He was found in the water so could be he drowned. Looks very shallow but apparently it doesn’t take much, and if he’d been drinking …’

‘Next of kin?’

‘Wife. She’s been informed. And a daughter.’

‘Anything on his movements last night?’ 16

‘His wife says he was drinking with friends in there.’ Gardner pointed across the pond at the Sun Inn. ‘Maybe he was drunk and—’

‘OK.’ Garibaldi started to put on his forensic suit, cap and shoes.

‘Is the bloke who found him here?’

Gardner pointed at a man standing with a uniform. ‘Over there.’

‘Do we know anything else about him? Allerton, that is.’

‘Not much yet.’

Garibaldi slipped on a forensic suit, over-shoes and gloves and moved towards the tent. Gardner followed him as he pushed open the flap.

Martin Stevenson was bent over a body on the gravel at the water’s edge.

Garibaldi stood behind him. ‘Morning doc.’

‘What kept you?’ said Stevenson, without turning.

‘It’s complicated.’

‘Do you know that over a quarter of deaths by drowning occur in less than three feet of water?’

‘So he drowned, then?’

‘Difficult to tell. There are bruises on the side of his neck consistent with strangulation, but I won’t be able to say until we open him up whether that’s the cause of death. As I said, it could be drowning. Interestingly, it doesn’t look as though he put up much resistance. I can tell you one thing, though.’

‘What’s that?’

‘I’ve never seen such traumatised ducks. I mean – a body in Barnes Pond? Never thought I’d see the day.’

Stevenson stood up and stepped back. Garibaldi moved forward and looked down at the body.

It was the clothes he recognised first. The chinos. The 17striped button-down shirt. The blue jacket. The grey scarf round the neck. The face, pale, puffed and bloated, was not how he remembered it, but Garibaldi was in no doubt whose it was.

Ben Joseph.

Liam Allerton must have written under a pseudonym.

18

3

Felicity Allerton’s face wore the waxwork glaze of the recently bereaved. Her words were distant and muffled, as if they were coming from the other side of a closed window, and every time she moved it was with the slowness of someone wading through water. Her eyes, dull with disbelief, moved between Garibaldi and Gardner and the man who sat beside her on the sofa.

‘I should have stayed with him,’ she said.

‘You mustn’t blame yourself,’ said Garibaldi with a sympathetic smile.

‘But I do,’ said Felicity. ‘I do blame myself. If only I’d …’

The man reached out a hand and placed it on Felicity’s arm. ‘I came round as soon as she called. I’m Ollie.’

‘Best man at our wedding,’ said Felicity, addressing a space in the middle of the room. ‘Ollie was best man at our wedding.’

‘I know it’s difficult to answer questions at a time like this,’ said Garibaldi, ‘but we need to find out as much as we can about what happened to your husband.’

‘How could he end up there, like that? He couldn’t have slipped, it’s only a pond. You don’t think—?’

‘We need to find out about Liam’s movements last night, 19Felicity. The more we know the more chance we have of finding out what happened to him.’

Felicity wrung her hands. ‘My daughter’s on her way round.’ She looked towards the hall as if expecting her to walk in.

She turned back to them, sighed and bowed her head, eyes closed, as if in prayer. She kept her head down as she started to speak.

‘I was with Liam for most of the evening. He was giving a talk at the OSO, the Old Sorting Office on the green. It was part of the book festival.’ She lifted her head. ‘He was a writer. I mean, he hadn’t always been, he took it up when he retired, but he’d written this book and he was asked to talk at the festival.’

Garibaldi leaned forward. ‘I know, Felicity. I was there.’

‘You were there?’ Felicity looked at him, her eyes sparking with delight, as if Garibaldi’s presence at her husband’s talk compensated in some small way for her loss. ‘What did you think?’

‘I was impressed.’

‘Really? I was worried for him.’

Garibaldi leaned forward. ‘Why was that?’

‘I had no idea how it would go. I always worry he might say the wrong thing or upset people. Liam has … had a habit of saying things, of speaking his mind.’ She turned to Ollie. ‘Didn’t he?’

Ollie nodded.

‘Hardly matters now, does it?’ said Felicity. ‘Had I known … I should have stayed with him.’

‘Stayed with him where?’

‘In the pub. I left early. You see, after the talk he signed some books and he told some friends he’d be going to the Sun afterwards. So there was a group of us there. I should 20have stayed, shouldn’t I? If I had maybe it wouldn’t have happened.’

‘Who was in this group?’

‘Some teachers from St Mark’s. You see, he retired from there three years ago and some of his old colleagues came to the talk. And there were some others he knew locally.’

Garibaldi turned to Ollie. ‘Were you there?’

‘I’d love to have been, but I couldn’t make it, unfortunately. I was at my brother’s in Winchester.’

‘So, Felicity,’ said Garibaldi, ‘did you know this group of people at the pub?’

‘Not all of them, no. I knew the teachers. Or at least I knew them to say hello to. I’d seen them at school events often enough, and Liam spoke about them a lot. Too much, I sometimes thought. He’d get in from school and he’d let rip about them. He’d …’

Felicity gazed ahead, as if her husband were letting rip in front of her.

‘Can you remember their names?’ said Gardner.

‘What? Their names. I don’t know. I—’

‘She’s a bit confused,’ said Ollie. ‘She might need—’

‘Of course,’ said Garibaldi. ‘I understand. ‘Take your time, Felicity. Whatever you can remember will be very helpful, but whenever you’re ready. I know this must be very difficult for you.’

‘Maybe he was drunk?’ said Felicity. ‘I mean, he liked a drink and he’d already had a few at the OSO and if he had a few more at the Sun and then walked round the pond and slipped …’

‘It’s so difficult to take in,’ said Ollie. ‘This whole thing is so absolutely unbelievable. It’s crazy! And do you know the craziest thing about it? What’s really crazy is that—’

‘Why would he walk that way round the pond?’ said 21Felicity, cutting in. ‘Why would he walk round the pond at all? That wasn’t his way home, so what was he doing there? The pond! There of all places! That’s the thing that … I can’t tell you how much that—’ She looked from Garibaldi to Gardner and then back to Garibaldi, her eyes wide with wonder and disbelief. ‘If only I’d stayed with him. If only I’d been with him.’

‘Why did you leave the pub?’ said Garibaldi.

‘Exactly! Why? If only—’

‘Did you come home?’ said Gardner.

‘I had this terrible headache. Splitting. It came on during his talk and I mean there he was with all his friends and it was getting late, so I had a quiet word with him and asked if he’d mind if I went home because I had this terrible headache and he said that was fine and that he wouldn’t be long. So if only …’

‘You mustn’t blame yourself, Felicity,’ said Ollie. ‘You really mustn’t. And you need to tell them.’

‘Tell them? Tell them what?’

‘You need to tell them what’s so weird about it.’ Ollie pointed to the table.

‘Of course. I must tell them!’ said Felicity, getting up from the sofa. She stood still for a moment, trying to find her balance, then walked, as if in a daze, to the table. She reached for a book and picked it up.

‘This!’ she said, pointing at the cover of Schooled in Murder.

She held the book up in front of them as if she was doing a show-and-tell, and pointed at the author’s name. ‘Ben Joseph. He wrote under a pseudonym.’

She opened the book, leafed through the first few pages, bent back the cover, and smoothed the page with her palm. ‘Read this.’

‘It’s incredible,’ said Ollie. ‘Unbelievable.’ 22

Felicity handed the book to Garibaldi. She pointed at the place on the page where he should begin.

Garibaldi took it and read. When he reached the lines – ‘whetherbeingfounddeadinthereedsofBarnesPondonlyhours afterhisfarewellparty’ – he looked up.

He had no idea what to say.

Open-mouthed, with his finger pointing at the phrase he had just read, he passed Ben Joseph’s novel to Gardner.

23

4

DCI Deighton pointed at the picture on the board behind her.

‘Barnes Pond,’ she said, addressing the team. ‘The heart of what the locals, I believe, like to call the village. Is that right, Garibaldi?’

‘Not this particular local,’ said Garibaldi, giving a wry smile, ‘but yes, a lovely place.’

‘Wasn’t too lovely this morning though,’ said Deighton. She pointed at the photo in the middle of the board. ‘A body in the reeds. Liam Allerton, local author writing under the name Ben Joseph, who only the evening before had been giving a talk in the OSO as part of the Barnes Book Festival. And as luck would have it our very own local happened to be in the audience.’

Deighton nodded in Garibaldi’s direction.

Garibaldi held up his hand, half in acknowledgement, half in apology. He knew everyone thought he was a bit of a smart arse, but he wanted them to know there were limits to his smart-arsery.

‘Not my usual Saturday night entertainment,’ he said, ‘but, yes, I was there.’

‘We don’t yet know exactly how Liam Allerton died,’ 24said Deighton, ‘but early signs are that he was strangled. He may have been dead before he ended up in Barnes Pond or he may have drowned once he was in it. It’s not a deep pond, but you can drown in shallow water. Obviously we’ll know more when we get the post-mortem. Any questions?’

Garibaldi looked at Gardner. She’d recently been trying not to be the first to ask a question, aiming for what she had called a more ‘reflective’ approach. She managed to stop her arm going up, but only just.

‘Allerton was last seen at the Sun Inn,’ said Deighton. ‘He went there with his wife and a group of friends, including old colleagues from St Mark’s where Allerton taught for many years before retiring three years ago. His wife, Felicity, left early but Allerton stayed on drinking. We’ve spoken to Felicity, but first I think we need a report from our literary correspondent.’

She nodded at Garibaldi again.

‘So yes,’ said Garibaldi, ‘I was at the OSO on Saturday night for the talk that was part of the Barnes BookFest. It was Ben Joseph, aka Liam Allerton, talking about this.’

He paused, reached into his jacket pocket, pulled out his copy of the novel and held it up.

‘SchooledinMurder. Haven’t read it yet but, in the light of something Felicity Allerton has pointed out, looks like I might need to read it sooner than intended. And here’s why. Now there’s a chance that this is nothing other than a bizarre coincidence, but we do need to be aware of it …’

Garibaldi paused and looked round the room. He loved moments like this, when he had an audience in his hands. Was this what Rachel felt when she had the full attention of a class?

‘OK, so SchooledinMurderis a crime novel and, as is 25generally the case with crime fiction – though not always, of course – the crime in question is murder. In Allerton’s book the murder victim is a teacher, Alex Ballantyne. His body is found the morning after his retirement party, but the really interesting thing is where it’s discovered …’

Another pause and a quick glance round the room.

‘The body of Alex Ballantyne is found in Barnes, where the novel is set. And it’s found in what we have already heard described as the heart of the village. Barnes Pond.’

He heard a few intakes of breath and saw raised eyebrows.

‘That’s right. Barnes Pond. More specifically, Ballantyne’s body is found in the tall reeds at the edge of Barnes Pond, on the side next to the Barnes Green Day Centre looking across to Essex House. And this, as we know, is exactly where Liam Allerton’s body was found this morning. More than that, Ballantyne’s body is found the morning after his retirement drinks at the Sun Inn, next to the pond. Where had Liam Allerton been the night before he was found floating in the reeds? The Sun Inn. As I say, these could all be extraordinary coincidences. But it’s certainly freaked out Felicity Allerton and I have to say it’s freaked me out a bit as well. If it’s coincidence it is, let’s say, some coincidence. Whatever it is, we need to be aware of it.’

A confused silence fell on the room.

‘What happens in the rest of the book?’ said DC McLean.

‘As I said,’ said Garibaldi, ‘I haven’t read it yet, but I can give you the blurb.’ He looked at the back cover. ‘Here we go. “When the body of Alex Ballantyne is found in Barnes Pond thepolicearebaffled.Whocouldwanttokillthenewlyretired teacher?

Investigations bring them to St Jude’s, the prestigious private school where Ballantyne taught and to the discovery that Ballantyne had been blackmailing several of his colleagues. 26

Sex. Money. Drugs. It seems that Ballantyne knew all about his victims’ secrets and they were prepared to pay to buy his silence.

IsoneoftheStJude’sstaffthekiller?And,ifso,whichone?

DI Moriarty’s on the case and he’s soon discovering that nothing is quite as it seems.”’

‘So one of those teachers kills him, right?’ said DC Hodson.

Garibaldi shrugged. ‘No idea. As I said, I haven’t read it. Ben Joseph – that is Liam Allerton – didn’t reveal the killer in his talk. You don’t do that kind of thing with a crime novel. Ruins it. What’s known as a spoiler.’

‘But Allerton was a teacher, right?’ said DC Hodson.

‘That’s right,’ said Garibaldi. ‘At St Mark’s.’

‘So this teacher in his book,’ said Gardner. ‘It could be him, could it?’

‘I don’t think we can reach any conclusions.’

‘Exactly,’ said Deighton from the front. ‘I’m not sure what we do with this information at the moment, but, as Garibaldi says, we definitely need to be aware of it. It may well be merely coincidence. At the moment our priority is to find out as much as we can about Liam Allerton, and in particular his movements from the time of his talk at the OSO to the discovery of his body this morning. We also need to know who was in the Sun Inn with him. Chances are they would have all been at his talk, so we should find out from the book festival the names of everyone who bought tickets.’

‘This book,’ said Gardner. ‘Do we need to read it?’

‘Given what we’ve just been told, I think it would be a good idea if we did,’ said Deighton. ‘We’re not in a book club, we’re investigating what looks like murder, but given the extraordinary similarity …’

‘It has to be more than coincidence, doesn’t it?’ said Gardner. ‘I mean, what are the chances?’ 27

‘I agree,’ said Deighton, ‘it’s strange, but we’re in the business of facts. We can speculate, yes, but what we need are facts, and we need to look at Liam Allerton’s book in the same way that we need to look at everything going on in his life.’

Garibaldi looked at his boss. She seemed irritated, as if something had got beneath her usually impenetrable skin. Maybe something to do with her home life, the one she had surprisingly revealed to him when they went out for a drink together about a year ago. He’d felt strangely protective of her ever since – a different kind of protectiveness from the one he felt towards Gardner, but there nonetheless. He’d even found himself not only refraining from joining in colleagues’ banter and speculation about the DCI, but also disapproving of it.

‘So,’ said Deighton, pointing at Ben Joseph’s author photo in the middle of the board behind her. ‘Liam Allerton. Who was he? What was he up to? And why would anyone want to kill him? Find out how the victim lived …’

And you’ll find out how he died.

Garibaldi finished the line in his head.

28

5

The Barnes Bookshop was at the heart of Barnes literary life. For over thirty years the independent bookshop, nestling between the post office and a shoe repair shop at the eastern end of Church Road, had served the bookish needs of Barnes and had become an important landmark on the local map. It played an active role in the community, supporting the thriving local literary society, furnishing local primary schools and promoting local authors, of whom Barnes was proud to boast many.

Araminta Warburton, the owner, loved her job. Books were important to her and so were independent shops such as this, not only as beacons of admirable resilience in the face of rampantly powerful tech firms and global digitalisation, but also as a meeting place for like-minded people, those for whom books mattered and who were prepared to pay that little extra to keep such places going. Araminta read widely herself and took great pleasure in sharing her enthusiasm with customers, trading judgements and opinions and providing what she hoped were interesting and stimulating suggestions.

The Barnes Book Festival had been Araminta’s 29brainchild. Her instincts told her there was an appetite for such a thing and her instincts proved to be correct. After huge effort and commitment, and with the backing of the Literary Society, a few local celebrities and a range of eager volunteers, Barnes BookFest had become an established part of the local calendar.

Now, the morning after the last festival event, she was exhausted, but she was also in a state of shock. First the phone call from Paula and then the string of customers, all with the same tale to tell.

A body in Barnes Pond.

Araminta was horrified, but she was embarrassed to find herself also feeling a little resentful. She couldn’t help but feel that, had it not been for the body in the pond, everyone who came into the shop would have been talking about the festival and congratulating her on its success. As it was, all they could do was speculate about the body in the pond. It seemed the festival’s success had been eclipsed by the morning’s sensational discovery.

According to Paula, the green was full of police and onlookers and a tent had been erected on the side of the pond where the body had been found. The body, apparently, was a man’s and it was widely believed, or at least believed by the customers she had seen so far this morning, that the man in question had been murdered.

Quite why the police wanted to see her Araminta couldn’t fathom. They had said on the phone that they had a few questions concerning the book festival, but they hadn’t told her what they were or why they needed to ask them and she could only draw one conclusion – that the questions they needed to ask about the festival were in some way connected to that morning’s discovery. The fact that the body had been found only yards from where the final 30festival event took place only added to this sense and, as she waited for the police’s arrival, she felt increasingly guilty, as if she might in some way be linked to, or even responsible for, what had happened.

When the detectives arrived she thought she recognised the shortish one with greying hair.

‘DI Garibaldi,’ he said as he showed his card.

‘I’m sure I’ve seen you before,’ said Araminta, conscious that her hands were shaking as she went to lock the door and flip round the ‘closed’ sign.

‘You may very well have done,’ he said. ‘I pop in whenever I can. I’ve even been known to buy a book. I like to think of each purchase as one in the eye for Amazon.’

Araminta now recognised him more clearly. She had often seen him browsing the shelves.

‘I expect you’re recovering from the book festival. Looks like it was a great success.’

‘I think it was,’ said Araminta. ‘Completely exhausting, but worth it. There’s so much to catch up on I was tempted not to open today, but it’s normally quiet on a Sunday, so I thought it would be OK. But now …’

‘We won’t keep you long, Mrs Warburton.’

‘I’m assuming this is about … the pond.’

‘It is. A body was found in Barnes Pond this morning.’

‘I can’t tell you how shocked I am. I – but I don’t see how I can help you. I mean—’

‘The body has been identified as Liam Allerton. Writes under the name Ben Joseph.’

The room started to spin. Araminta’s eyes tried to fix on something to stop the movement but the room kept turning, the books on the shelves dissolving into a kaleidoscopic swirl.

‘Are you OK?’ 31

The voice sounded muffled, as if it were coming from under a pillow.

‘Mrs Warburton?’

The room stopped. Araminta stared, open-mouthed, at the two detectives. She steadied herself and took several deep breaths. ‘Did you say Ben Joseph?’

‘Yes,’ said the man. ‘Liam Allerton. Writes under the name Ben Joseph.’

‘But he was speaking at the fest … only last night. I mean—’

‘I know he was, Mrs Warburton. I was there.’

Araminta looked at the detective more closely. Not only did he come into the shop to buy books, he also came to Barnes BookFest. Part of her brain, still struggling to process the devastating news, was now readjusting her stereotype of the average police detective.

‘You were there? Did you enjoy it?’

What was she doing? She had just been told that Ben Joseph had been found dead in the pond and this was the first question she asked.

‘I did. Very much so. But, tell me, did you notice anything at the event?’

‘Like what?’

‘Anything unusual, anything different.’

‘I can’t remember anything. I certainly didn’t see anything that made me think …’

Araminta broke off. She was in such a state of shock that she found it difficult to recall details.

‘How did Ben Joseph seem?’

‘It was a great talk. Quite a witty speaker is Liam. I mean, he was …’ Araminta shuddered. ‘But, yes, a great talk, lively questions and answers and we sold a lot of books.’

‘He didn’t seem worried or anxious?’ 32

‘No more than any writer about to talk. In fact, I’d probably say considerably less. He was quietly confident.’

‘And nothing happened during his book signing? No strange or awkward encounters?’

‘No more than usual. I can’t believe for one moment that anyone …’

‘And what about the audience? Did you notice anyone behaving strangely?’

Araminta gave a weak laugh. ‘No more than usual for a Barnes event. A lot of local faces. But no, I can’t say I noticed anyone.’

‘Do you have a record of all those who bought tickets for the event?’

‘You don’t think someone in the audience might have—?’

‘We’re trying to find out as much as we can about Liam Allerton’s movements last night and we’re particularly interested to know who was with him after the event. There’s a chance they would have attended it.’

‘So you need to know who bought tickets. Yes, I should be able to get that for you.’

‘That would be very helpful, Mrs Warburton. And, tell me, did tickets all have to be bought in advance or were some available on the door?’

‘No. It was sold out. Very popular. A lot of people wanted to go, even though it was a Saturday night.’

‘So how many do you think were there?’

‘I reckon about a hundred.’

‘Well that list would be very helpful.’

Araminta looked from one detective to the other. They said nothing.

‘Oh, you mean right now? I see …’

‘That would be great,’ said the man.

Araminta turned and went into the tiny office at the back 33of the shop, hoping she could give the detectives what they wanted. Their presence made her feel very uneasy and she was keen for them to go.

Garibaldi browsed the bookshelves while he waited. The shop was one of his favourite places and what he had told its owner was the truth – he derived more pleasure buying from an independent than he did from pressing the Amazon button.

He wandered over to a table where the books of the festival writers were on display and picked up a copy of Schooled in Murder. Gardner did the same, and they were both several pages into it when Araminta came out of her office brandishing a sheet of paper.

‘Here it is. I hope I’ve …’ She broke off when she saw the two of them reading the Ben Joseph novel. ‘Couldn’t resist, I see.’

Garibaldi looked up and nodded. Reading the opening for the second time had not diminished its shock, and he knew he had to read the whole thing as soon as he could – tonight, perhaps, if he was home early enough.

He closed the book and glanced at the overblown quotes on the back cover from names he didn’t recognise. He looked at the front – the school buildings with Hammersmith Bridge in the background at the top, the reeds of Barnes Pond at the bottom and the white lettering of the title – and held the book out towards Araminta.

‘Tell you what,’ he said. ‘In exchange for this list of names, I’ll buy it.’

‘Don’t feel you have to.’

‘I don’t feel that at all. I would very much like to.’

Araminta handed the sheet to Garibaldi and went to the till. 34

‘Do you have a loyalty card?’

Garibaldi felt in his pockets and took out his wallet. ‘This may come as a surprise to you but, yes, I do.’ He handed it over to Araminta.

‘I’ll give you two stamps. One for the book and one for coming along to the festival.’

‘You don’t need to do that. I’ll be accused of taking bribes. I can see the headline now. Met cop in loyalty card stamp probe.’

Araminta laughed, and then stopped herself. ‘I don’t know why I’m laughing. To think of poor Liam. I mean, who … why … what?’

‘Exactly the questions we’re asking ourselves, Mrs Warburton, and we’ll do our very best to find out.’

Garibaldi took the book from Araminta. ‘You’ve read it, have you?’

‘Oh, yes. So have all the staff. We loved it.’

‘Right,’ said Garibaldi, turning to Gardner. ‘We’ll be off.’

‘You will let me know of any further developments, won’t you?’

‘If we have any further questions for you we’ll be in touch. I think it unlikely we’ll be able to pop in to give you an update.’

‘Of course.’

Outside the shop Garibaldi’s phone rang. Deighton.

‘Jim, I’ve just been on the phone to the head of St Mark’s, Harry Reed. He hadn’t heard the news about Allerton. Said he’ll get his secretary to send through a list of current and recent teaching staff. If we check that against the ticket sales for his talk we’ll know who was there and who might have gone with Allerton to the Sun.’

‘Did he say anything about the book?’

‘The book? Didn’t mention it. He’s at home and the 35school’s broken up for the summer but he’s in school tomorrow so we can talk to him there.’

‘OK.’ Garibaldi hung up and handed the sheet of ticket-buyers to Gardner.

Garibaldi nodded. ‘Fancy a walk?’

‘Where to?’

‘How about the pond? Maybe a pastry from Gail’s on the way.’

‘Done.’

A Gail’s pastry. Just like crossing Hammersmith Bridge heading south, it always made the world seem a little better.

36

6

Rachel’s face was a mixture of shock and disbelief.

‘The man we both saw talking at the OSO, the man who signed his book for me is found dead and you didn’t tell me?’

‘I’ve been busy,’ said Garibaldi.

‘Busy? How long does a call take? A text even.’

‘I’m sorry—’

‘And murdered?’

‘Looks like it.’

Rachel turned down the corners of her mouth in a frown of disapproval. Garibaldi couldn’t work out what she disapproved of more – Liam Allerton’s murder or his failure to tell her about it.

‘Where was he found?’

‘Barnes Pond. In the reeds.’

‘Say that again.’

‘Say what again?’

‘Where he was found.’

‘In the reeds of Barnes Pond.’

‘But that’s where—’

‘I know.’

‘That’s where the body’s found in his novel!’ 37

Rachel walked over to the table and picked up her copy of Schooled in Murder. She opened it, flicked past the first few pages and read.

She held the open book towards Garibaldi, turning it round so he could read it. ‘Look at this!’

‘Yeah, I know. I’ve been trying to tell you.’

‘I thought you hadn’t read it.’

‘I’ve read the beginning. Liam Allerton’s wife showed me.’

‘I don’t believe it. He’s found in exactly the same place as the victim in his novel. Ironic or what?’

‘Exactly.’

‘And you didn’t tell me! I don’t believe it.’

‘I was going to, but—’

‘How was he killed?’

‘Looks like he was strangled.’

‘Strangled? That’s what happens in the book!’

‘Really?’

‘Yeah. He’s strangled. And he ends up in Barnes Pond.’

‘I had no idea.’

‘What about Rohypnol?’ said Rachel.

‘Rohypnol?’

‘Yeah. Turns out his drink was spiked with Rohypnol.’

Garibaldi reached for a bag and took out his copy of Schooled in Murder. ‘I need to read this, don’t I?’

‘Where did you get that from?’

‘I bought it.’