The Final Round E-Book

Bernard O'Keeffe

• Herausgeber: Muswell Press
• Kategorie: Krimi
• Serie: A DI Garibaldi Novel
• Sprache: Englisch

Seitenzahl: 438

Veröffentlichungsjahr: 2021

Beschreibung

Introducing Detective DI Garibaldi, a country-music loving, self-educated detective, and the only cop in the Metropolitan Police who can't drive a car. On the morning after Boat Race Day, a man's body is found in a nature reserve beside the Thames. He has been viciously stabbed, his tongue cut out, and an Oxford college scarf stuffed in his mouth. The body is identified as that of Nick Bellamy, last seen at the charity quiz organised by his Oxford contemporary, the popular newsreader Melissa Matthews.Enter DI Garibaldi, whose first task is to look into Bellamy's contemporaries from Balfour College. In particular, the surprise 'final round' of questions at this year's charity quiz in which guests were invited to guess whether allegations about Melissa Matthews and her Oxford friends are true. These allegations range from plagiarism and shoplifting to sextortion and murder…

Leseprobe

THE FINAL ROUND

Bernard O’Keeffe

In loving memory of Caitlin

Contents

Title PageDedication123456789101112131415161718192021222324252627282930313233343536373839404142AcknowledgementsOther books by Bernard O’KeeffeCopyright

1

1

Saturday 6 April

The towpath is packed, the walkway beside the river is four or five deep, and the balconies of the Lonsdale Road houses are buzzing with parties. The Bull’s Head heaves on its busiest day of the year, and this normally quiet area of London is crowded with people, for many of whom this is the only time they ever visit the sleepy ‘village by the Thames’.

Occasionally the crews of Oxford and Cambridge are close enough to each other at Barnes for the outcome to still be in doubt, but more often than not one boat is by now so far ahead that there is little prospect of further excitement – it is now unlikely that either boat will sink or that anyone will hurl themself into the river in a protest against elitism. The proximity of the Mortlake finishing line means that by the time the oarsmen pass the Bull’s Head and the White Hart, the event has become more of a procession than a contest. In sporting terms, the competition is over, and Boat Race Day is now even more about The Day than The Race.

This does little to dampen the enthusiasm of the crowd, 2most of whom have been drinking all day, and when the boats come into sight, rounding the bend below Hammersmith Bridge, there is a surge of inebriated encouragement from the towpath. The vast majority of the spectators may have no connection with the two ancient universities, but this does not prevent them pledging their allegiance to one or the other by loudly crying encouragement or by simply roaring the name of their favoured university with strangely elongated vowels (‘Oxfo-o-o-ord!’, ‘Cambri-i-i-idge!’). Everyone likes to give the impression that they spent their youth strolling through ivy-covered quads or lazing under dreaming spires.

When the crews have passed, the crowds walk away from the river, flooding into the White Hart, the Bull’s Head, the Coach and Horses, or the Sun Inn, a pub that marks Boat Race Day by erecting a marquee in its car park and playing loud music late into the night. For one day (and one day only, much to the relief of the locals) Barnes is a party town.

Nick Bellamy stood outside the Sun Inn, facing the pretty village pond. He supped his beer, drew on his cigarette and listened to the loud rendition of ‘Hi Ho Silver Lining’ coming from the band in the marquee. He checked his watch, finished the rest of his pint in three large gulps and turned right down Barnes High Street towards the river.

The race had finished several hours ago but it was still light, an early evening chill replacing the warmth of the spring sunshine as dusk approached. Nick tied his college scarf round his neck and, as he made his way through groups of hoodie-clad students drinking from bottles and cans, he wondered why so many made this annual pilgrimage. Was it tradition – some misty-eyed, nostalgic view of the world in which strapping 3young men from Oxford and Cambridge testing themselves in the choppy waters of the Thames still added up to something significant? Or was it simpler than that – another excuse for people to get together, a yearly event where they could meet old friends and get drunk by the river?

Nick headed away from the crowds, walking along the raised concrete path that ran beside the river. When he reached its end he passed the TV vans and took a smaller track heading to the right. He followed it up a slope, paused at a gate, undid the latch and walked through.

Immediately he was struck by the quiet – he may have been only yards away from the traffic of Lonsdale Road and the Boat Race revelry, but it felt as if he had stepped into a different world. He pushed aside low-hanging foliage as he walked along the path. Nothing was visible through the leaves on either side, but when the bushes thinned he could make out the river to his left. He could also see water to his right – a large lake lying still in the silence. Nothing moved on its dark surface. Nothing rippled. All he could hear was the occasional flap of a bird.

Nick pushed through the overhanging branches, beginning to wonder whether he had heard correctly, whether this was the right place. Then, as he turned a bend in the path, another gap appeared in the bushes to his right and there, in a clearing, he could see a woman sitting on a bench. He picked up his pace.

The woman raised her hand as he drew close. ‘I’m here.’

‘So I see,’ said Nick.

‘Glad you made it.’

‘A bit out of the way, isn’t it?’

The woman looked up at the darkening sky. The light was fading fast. ‘I thought we could use the privacy.’

Nick laughed. ‘I don’t think I’m up for that.’

4‘You used to be.’

‘I used to be up for a lot of things.’

‘Didn’t we all?’ She patted the narrow wooden bench beside her.

Nick sat down and looked into her eyes, searching for the lost years.

‘I see you’re wearing the scarf,’ she said.

‘Ironically, of course. Thought you might find it amusing.’

‘I do. So … As agreed, then?’

‘As agreed. Not a word. On my honour.’

‘On your honour? That’s my worry.’

‘You’ve got it?’

The woman reached into her bag and took out a package.

‘All there?’ said Nick.

‘I counted it all.’

Nick took the package, felt its weight, and shoved it in the inside pocket of his jacket. ‘A deal, then.’

‘A deal. Worth celebrating, don’t you think?’ She reached into her bag and pulled out a small bottle of whisky and two plastic glasses. She held up the glasses in her gloved hands. ‘Drink?’

‘I never say no to a drink,’ said Nick.

‘You never say no to anything. Or at least you never used to.’

The woman placed the glasses on the bench between them, unscrewed the bottle and poured. She handed a glass to Nick.

Nick held up his glass towards her. ‘Cheers!’

‘Cheers!’ said the woman, clinking her glass against his. ‘All sorted.’

Nick patted the package in his pocket. ‘Sorted,’ he said.

‘To old times,’ said the woman.

Nick raised his glass again. ‘Old times,’ he echoed.

The woman was staring at him oddly, as if she were expecting him to do or say something more. She said 5nothing, fixing him with a steady, expectant gaze, her eyes flashing as light from the road bounced off the water’s surface.

Nick took another sip. Why was she looking at him like that? What was she waiting for?

6

2

Sunday 7 April

Yesterday’s crowds were gone, Barnes was restored to its usual state of sleepy tranquillity, and in the morning sunshine a young lawyer took a walk by the river with his wife and daughter. They strolled from the Bull’s Head towards Hammersmith, turned right when they reached the gravel towpath, made their way up a small slope and pushed the latch of the swing-to that led to the Leg o’ Mutton Reservoir, a nature reserve lying between the river and Lonsdale Road – the perfect place, to those in the know, for a Sunday-morning stroll.

The couple watched their daughter run on ahead as they closed the gate behind them.

‘Don’t go beyond the bench, Chloe!’ shouted the mother. ‘And don’t go near the slope!’

They knew that Chloe would run ahead to the clearing, where she would sit on the bench and look onto the water for the birds she had recently learned to identify. As she disappeared from view round a bend in the path, they held hands and started to talk about the things that had recently come to 7matter – his prospects of partnership, her desire for a second child, the likelihood of their trading up their property while staying in Barnes, and the plans for Chloe’s future schooling.

Her shout surprised them.

‘Mummy! Daddy!’

They looked at each other for a panic-stricken instant and broke into a run.

‘Chloe!’ called the father.

‘We’re coming!’ shouted the mother.

They ran towards their daughter’s cry and as they turned the bend in the path they saw, to their relief, that she was sitting safely on the bench.

‘What’s happened?’ said her mother.

Chloe pointed a finger to the ground in front of her.

‘What is it?’ said her father.

Chloe said nothing, her arm stretched, her finger extended. Her parents looked where it was pointing.

‘Oh my God,’ said Chloe’s mother, covering her mouth with her hands.

‘Shit!’ said her father.

They looked at the body lying face up on the tiled slope leading down to the lake.

Its shredded shirt was covered in blood, every part of it bearing large, jagged rips as if a knife had torn through it hundreds of times. Its face, frozen in a wide-eyed death stare, was distended, its cheeks puffed out wide by the scarf stuffed into its mouth and tied round its neck.

The man looked at the scarf and, typically perhaps for a Barnes resident, recognised the Oxford college to which it belonged.

It took him longer to recognise the dead man’s tongue lying next to his head like a fat red slug.

8

3

Saturday 2 March

Melissa Matthews

Requests the pleasure of JULIA and PHIL FORREST at

The 25th Anniversary

Quiz Night

The Ocean Bar

Julia Forrest ran her fingers through her dark bobbed hair and looked at the invitation. ‘Twenty-five years!’

‘What is?’ said Phil, eyes scrolling down his iPad.

‘The quiz. It’s the twenty-fifth anniversary. Difficult to believe, isn’t it?’

Phil looked up at his wife. He did not find the concept so difficult to grasp.

Julia sighed. ‘Oh well, I suppose we’ll have to go.’

Phil laughed. ‘I suppose we’ll have to go? Of course you’ll go. You always go. That’s the thing about you lot. You can’t stand each other but you can’t miss the chance to remind yourself why.’

9‘What do you mean, we can’t stand each other?’

Phil chuckled and turned back to his iPad. ‘Well, let’s start with Melissa, shall we?’

‘Well, no one likes Melissa.’

‘There you go. My point exactly.’

‘But that’s only because she’s such a smug bitch.’

‘You’re jealous. You’re all jealous.’

‘Nonsense.’

‘You moan every time she’s on TV.’

‘I’m sure I’m not alone there.’

‘Just because she’s famous …’

‘She reads the news. That’s all she does.’

‘Reads the news – and the rest. One half of a glamour couple.’

‘Yeah, the pretty half. Not too difficult to see how she built her career, is it?’

‘And you’re not jealous?’

‘No.’

‘I don’t believe you. You and the rest of them. As I said, you can’t stand each other.’

‘Nonsense.’

‘OK then, what about Fay?’

‘I’ve a lot of time for Fay.’

‘Really? You don’t like her much, though, do you?’

‘Can’t be easy being head of that school.’

‘Exactly. Easy to make mistakes.’

‘At least she got where she is on her own merits. No one can say Fay married success.’

‘No one can say Fay married anyone. And let’s face it, you don’t like her because she could have done more to accommodate the daughter of one of her oldest friends.’

‘You really think I hold that against her?’

‘Melissa’s daughter sits the St Mark’s entrance exam. 10Melissa’s daughter gets in. Our daughter sits the St Mark’s entrance exam. Our daughter doesn’t. Don’t tell me that isn’t one of the reasons you have it in for Melissa and don’t tell me you still can’t quite forgive Fay.’

‘The more I hear about Fay’s school, the happier I am she’s not there. Melissa’s precious daughter’s been in all kinds of trouble. And going to the Dolphin hasn’t exactly harmed Helena, has it?’

‘You love it, don’t you? Bitching.’

‘I do not bitch.’

‘Gloat, then.’

‘I do not gloat.’

‘Really? “What a shame that Helena has an Oxford offer at our old college and Lauren doesn’t. How nice it would have been for both of them to be there together!” You love it. You may not be on TV. You may not have married someone as successful as Greg Matthews – although you did marry someone a hell of a lot more handsome and who still has a full head of hair – but at least you’ve produced a daughter who’s smarter than hers.’

‘It’s not a competition.’

‘Of course it’s not. Just an irresistible desire to see everyone else fail.’

‘Who wants everyone to fail?’

Julia and Phil hadn’t noticed Helena coming into the kitchen. They turned to the voice.

‘Boasting again, Mum?’

‘Of course not.’

Helena opened the fridge and peered inside. ‘Don’t count your chickens.’

‘You’ll be fine.’

‘I’ve got to get the grades, haven’t I? Still time to fuck it up.’

‘Helena!’

11Objecting to her daughter’s language made absolutely no difference but Julia liked to persist. This pattern – persistence with little result – had, in recent years, characterised all her attempts at parenting.

‘It wouldn’t take much, would it? I mean, look at Lauren.’

The last thing in the world Julia wanted was to see her daughter going down the same path as Melissa’s. She never wanted to visit any child of hers in the Priory.

‘Everything’s … OK, isn’t it?’

Helena shrugged. ‘All I’m saying is don’t make assumptions. Anything could happen.’

‘You’ll be fine,’ said Phil in a no-nonsense tone. ‘Just do what you have to do.’

Helena took a yoghurt from the fridge, closed the door with a sigh, and gave them both an exaggerated ironic smile. ‘Thanks for that, Dad. I’ll just go off and … do what I have to do, then.’

Phil and Julia exchanged raised eyebrows as their daughter slammed the door behind her. They listened to her thump up the stairs.

‘Don’t worry,’ said Phil. ‘In ten years we’ll be done – all our kids through the system.’

‘Is the first one the most difficult, do you think?’

‘Who knows? The way Ellie and Felix are shaping up I think they’ll give Helena a good run for her money.’

Julia looked at Phil and wondered, as she did at this time every year when she looked at the quiz night invitation, how things might have turned out so differently. She thought again about Melissa’s daughter in relation to her own, and then about their husbands. Phil was definitely the winner when it came to hair (his striking mop of unruly grey curls was the envy of men like Greg, who had turned bald many years ago) and he was also the more handsome. But when it 12came to material success there was no doubt that Greg and Melissa had experienced it on a scale none of them, not least herself, could ever have imagined all those years ago.

Were there times when she thought what it might be like to be married to someone so rich, to live in that huge mansion, to be so connected to so many of the famous and influential? And were there also times when she felt this strange urge to want some of it for herself, to appropriate and pocket what could, had different decisions been taken, had the dice rolled differently, so easily have been hers?

It struck Fay Wetherby as richly ironic that she should receive Melissa’s invitation moments before she was about to field a parental complaint about her daughter. Teaching the daughter of one of your oldest friends would be bad enough, but being her headmistress was proving almost impossible. Had Lauren Matthews been an easy pupil all would have been fine, but, as the nature of the conversation she was about to have and her experience over the last six years indicated, this was far from the case.

There were many advantages to being the head of London’s most prestigious girls’ school – power, status, influence and money were the first that sprang to mind – but there were also many drawbacks, and at the moment the most significant of these seemed to Fay to be the unrelenting awfulness of the parental body. Who did they think they were? OK, so they paid the fees. OK, so the education of their darling daughters was of supreme importance to their well-being (and also to their daughters’, though in Fay’s experience this was very much a secondary consideration), but why did they have to be so demanding? Was it not enough for them to have secured a place at what was unquestionably the top school in London? Was it not enough for them to know their daughter was 13guaranteed a plate-load of A*s and a good chance of ending up at Oxbridge?

From what Fay experienced on a daily basis, it clearly was not. What else could explain the string of complaints she dealt with? Complaints that had a habit of trickling through the protective layers of management she had put in place below her and landing in her inbox with a heart-deadening ping, or even worse, as in the case of what she was about to endure, announcing themselves with another turn of her office door handle?

‘Mr and Mrs Canning, thank you so much for coming in.’ Fay stood up, shook the parents’ hands, and gestured them towards the chairs arranged around a circular glass table in the middle of the room, an arrangement intended to make meetings such as this less confrontational than they would be were she to conduct them from behind the barrier of a desk. Mr and Mrs Canning responded with half-smiles, and sat down, keen to dispense with the niceties and begin the fight.

Fay sat down opposite them, immediately wishing she had a desk to protect her. She straightened her back and braced herself. ‘Mr and Mrs Canning, it’s always difficult when a girl is suspended, and I can understand how strongly you feel about it.’

‘Can you?’ said Mr Canning.

‘Yes, I think I can—’

‘Do you have a daughter?’

‘No, but—’

Mrs Canning leaned forward. ‘Do you have a son?’

‘No. I don’t have a son.’

Fay gave a tense smile. ‘I don’t see how whether or not I have a—’

‘I know that Phoebe committed a serious offence,’ said Mr Canning, ‘and neither my wife nor I is here to defend her.’

14Fay nodded. They were not here to defend their daughter – they were here to attack her head.

‘What puzzles me,’ Mr Canning continued, ‘what puzzles us, and, I think you should know this, what puzzles a large part of the parental body, is why, when there was another girl who seems to have committed exactly the same offence, this other girl was not suspended as well.’

Fay leaned forward, her hands resting firmly on the desk. ‘The affair was investigated thoroughly and it was felt there were significant differences.’

‘Could you possibly, just so that we are all clear, remind us of what those differences are?’

‘We’ve been through all this before, Mr Canning.’

‘Perhaps you don’t like to remind yourself?’

‘Look, Mr Canning, we all agree that online abuse of a member of staff, in any form, is unacceptable. Your daughter, as I recall, called a member of staff, and I quote,’ – Fay looked down at the file on her table and turned over a page – ‘“a fat poof who is a crap teacher”. The other girl—’

‘Lauren Matthews.’

‘That’s right. Lauren Matthews. She wrote, “I agree. Crap teacher.” It seems to me quite clear that there is a difference between the two.’

‘She was being abusive as well.’

‘I really do not want to go over old ground, Mr and Mrs Canning. Lauren Matthews was punished—’

‘A detention? Not much of a punishment, is it?’

‘But given her previous record it was felt that Phoebe’s punishment should be more severe.’

Mr Canning snorted. ‘Phoebe’s previous record? What about Lauren Matthews’ previous record? She’s been in all kinds of trouble!’

‘There were clear differences between them,’ said Fay.

15‘Oh there were differences, all right,’ said Mrs Canning, her voice rising sharply, ‘and the biggest difference to us seems to be that, unlike Greg and Melissa Matthews, we are not high-profile media figures and, unlike Greg and Melissa Matthews, we haven’t recently made a huge contribution to the Development Appeal.’

Fay leaned back in her chair and let out an exasperated sigh. ‘Is that what you think?’

‘I’m not saying anything,’ said Mr Canning.

‘It sounds to me as if you are. In fact, it sounds as if you are saying something very specific and I’m not sure I like its implications, Mr Canning.’

‘Your decision to suspend Phoebe has damaged her enormously, and it’s also damaged us. And what we can’t understand is why you seem to have been so selective in the way you have administered what you think is justice. Perhaps there is no connection between your decision and—’

‘There is absolutely no connection, Mr and Mrs Canning, and if that is the only reason for this visit, I am afraid you have both wasted your time coming in this morning.’

‘All I can say,’ said Mr Canning as both he and his wife got to their feet, ‘is that if it wasn’t Phoebe’s A-level year, we’d be taking this further. As it is, we just want Phoebe to take her exams and leave. You’ve said that this suspension won’t affect her university place – not, alas, a place at Oxford – and we’re assuming your word on this is to be trusted. But one thing I would like to say, Miss Wetherby, is how glad we are that Phoebe’s time at St Mark’s is coming to an end.’

Fay held her breath until the door closed and then let out a deep sigh of relief and frustration. Had she been right not to suspend Lauren? Yes, absolutely. Could she understand why it might look questionable? Yes, absolutely. Was she 16worried about how much the parental body seemed to know and what they might discover? Yes, absolutely.

Chris Turner opened the white envelope as he sat at the kitchen table of his house in Finsbury Park.

‘The cow!’

‘Who is it this time?’ said Kim.

‘What?’

‘Melissa fucking Matthews.’

Her again. And this time with ‘fucking’ as her middle name, an accolade achieved only by a special kind of cow.

‘The price of a table. She’s put it up again.’

‘She puts it up every year.’

‘But not this much! Charity fascism, that’s what it is. As if we’ve all got enough to give whatever we’re asked to whatever ridiculous cause.’

‘Why can’t you lot just send each other Christmas cards like everyone else? Or have a reunion every ten years or something? Every year you do it! And a fucking quiz, for God’s sake! Oh well. I hope you enjoy it.’

‘Who says I’m going?’

‘You go every year. Every year you open the invitation, moan about the price, moan about Melissa and Greg and their famous friends, and wonder what Nick Bellamy’s been up to. Then you say you’re not going this year and a few days later I find out you’ve forked out the money and off you trot.’

‘Well, maybe this year I really won’t go.’

Kim gave a loud laugh. ‘Don’t be silly. Of course you’ll go. And you’ll come back saying how Greg Matthews is a crap writer and look at how many millions of books he’s sold. And you’ll get depressed for a couple of weeks because you haven’t even managed to finish your novel, let alone tried to get it published. And then you’ll moan about the others …’

17‘I don’t moan about the others.’

‘Yes you do. All the time.’

‘I don’t moan about Nick.’

‘That’s because, unlike the rest of them, he’s fucked it up and doesn’t turn up any more.’

‘Well, maybe he’ll turn up again this year. That’d make it interesting.’

‘I’ll tell you something that will make it interesting.’

‘What’s that?’

‘What about if I came along?’

Chris looked at his wife in astonishment. ‘Why would you want to do that? You’d hate it.’

Kim waved the invitation under Chris’s nose. ‘The twenty-fifth! A special occasion. And I’m good at quizzes – I know loads.’

‘That’s not the point.’

‘What is the point, then? You don’t want me to come along, do you?’

‘It’s not that.’

‘You don’t want me intruding on your cosy little world of old pals. Is that it? All those glamorous women.’

‘Don’t be silly.’

‘You’re at that dangerous age, aren’t you? Fifty looms and there might just be time to revive something from the past …’

‘Nothing like that went on with any of them.’

Kim threw back her head and laughed. ‘Of course not! You were up to other things weren’t you? Playing in the privacy of your own room. Bless!’

‘Please! Not that old chestnut again.’

‘Oh, it was a chestnut, was it? I thought it was—’

‘You know it’s not true. Nothing but another Nick Bellamy story.’

18‘Still, it’s always comforting to think your secret perversions might have started before you met me.’

‘Please, Kim, don’t … Look, if you want to come along, that’s absolutely fine.’

‘Really? Are you sure I won’t be an embarrassment to you? A mere teacher at a north London comprehensive?’

‘You’re Head of History. And you’re being silly.’

Kim got up from the table and picked up her bag.

‘Do you really want to come along or are you just being awkward?’

‘I’ll think about it today,’ said Kim. She gave Chris a goodbye peck on the lips and headed for the door. ‘Maybe I want something to take my mind off … off everything.’

‘Harry will be fine,’ said Chris.

‘Will he?’

‘Of course he will. Now that it’s been diagnosed, now that we know what it is, we can deal with it.’

‘We should have noticed.’

‘We did. We …’

‘We should have done something earlier.’

‘It’s very common, late diagnosis. And it’s mild. On the spectrum, but mild.’

‘I know, but—’

‘He’ll be fine. We’ll get him the help he needs and … look, he’ll be fine. And if you want to come to the quiz, that’s great. You can be on my table. Might be nice to do well for once. Come to think of it, you must know some clever people at school. Ask them along.’

‘Not really their thing,’ said Kim as she headed through the door. ‘And at that price? You’ve got to be joking.’

Kim shut the door behind her and Chris looked at the invitation in his hand. Something had made him feel uneasy and he couldn’t work out whether it was the idea of Kim 19coming along to the Ocean Bar or her reference to that old story. He hoped she still believed him when he said it was untrue and hoped that he still convinced her when he said he had nothing to hide.

Nick Bellamy almost threw the invitation away. It was sitting in a pile of junk mail and he was about to chuck the whole lot in the bin when the expensive white envelope fell to the ground. He picked it up, recognised the hand, and knew immediately what it was – for many years a similarly addressed envelope had landed on his doormat at this time of year. He opened it and found what he expected. What he had not expected, though, was the handwritten message at the bottom – Hope you can make up a table this year, as it’s a special occasion – the twenty-fifth anniversary! Love, Melissa.

Could it really be twenty-five years? It seemed only yesterday that he had turned up with a bottle of wine for Melissa’s first ever quiz evening. Back then it was just the six of them with their partners in her modest Clapham flat (nothing modest about her now). But as the years went by, the quiz, like Melissa and Greg’s wealth and fame, had grown, moving from their flat to a fashionable Notting Hill restaurant and then to the prestigious riverside Ocean Bar, extending its range of invitations to the famous and the wealthy. What had begun as six Oxford friends getting together each year for a quiz night had somehow become part of the London intelligentsia’s season. The Melissa Matthews Charity Quiz Night was a big event, and everyone wanted an invitation.

Nick looked at the white card in his hands and wondered why, after turning the invitation down in recent years, he felt the urge this year to accept, to say yes, to get a table together for Melissa’s precious quiz night. He knew what it would be like – all the old friends pretending that they still liked each 20other and that the years had not weakened, if not entirely dissolved, the bonds that had once kept them close. And presiding over all of it would be the glamorous couple – Melissa and Greg, a reminder to Nick of how differently things had panned out for his old college friends and in particular of how well Melissa had done to marry the global bestselling novelist with more money than Nick could shake a stick at.

The more Nick looked at the words ‘twenty-fifth anniversary’, the more convinced he was that this year he would say yes. He would turn up. More than that, he would turn up and win the fucking thing – he would beat the smartest arses in Melissa’s charmed circle of the metropolitan glitterati. He would mark the passing of all those disappeared years by winning the Ocean Bar Quiz. He would carry home the trophy, get his name in the Evening Standard and, most importantly, he would show Melissa Matthews that she made a terrible mistake all those years ago. He would remind her of how, despite all the changes they had been through, he would always be important in her life.

And, if he played it cleverly, he would get his hands on some of her huge pile of money. God knows he needed it.

21

4

Sunday 24 March

Melissa Matthews stood at the front, her long blonde hair framing the blue eyes and high cheekbones familiar to the nation from her TV newsreading. She adjusted the microphone and gave her best to-camera smile.

‘Good evening, everyone.’

They were all there: Paul Camden (comedian and chatshow host), Jonny Sinclair (editor of satirical weekly The Dirt); Peter Home (world’s greatest living playwright); Max Peterson (the prime minister’s discredited ex-spin doctor); Annie Green (Oscar-winning actress). Wherever you looked were people who mattered, or who liked to give the impression they did.

Apart, that is, from one table.

Nick Bellamy and his team were initially refused entry – not only because Nick had forgotten his invitation but also because they were all drunk and didn’t seem the sort who came to events like this. Melissa was called to the door where she verified Nick as a bona fide guest, before giving 22him a kiss on the cheek and whispering a quiet warning in his ear.

The level of noise currently coming from Nick’s table suggested that her warning had not been heeded.

Melissa tried to ignore it. ‘Good evening, everybody,’ she repeated. The noise slowly subsided, and heads turned to the top table. ‘Good evening, everyone. And welcome to the Ocean Bar Quiz.’

Loud cheers followed, those from Nick’s table stopping a good ten seconds after the rest.

‘A significant occasion,’ continued Melissa, ‘because it is the quiz’s twenty-fifth anniversary. Its silver anniversary.’

Loud applause filled the room.

‘First, the rules.’

Melissa, standing in front of a large screen and an elaborate scoreboard, introduced the format – ten rounds of ten questions, with a joker doubling the points of any nominated round – and handed over to Arthur Manning, celebrated TV journalist and quizmaster for the evening, who launched into the questions with his characteristic blend of sharpness and charm.

As the quiz progressed and alcohol consumption increased, the banter grew louder and the guests more rowdy. Despite claims that this was merely a bit of fun that no one should take too seriously, it was difficult to hide the competitive edge. Accusations of mobile-phone cheating were levelled at those who went outside for a cigarette or headed for the toilets, and scores were questioned and challenged by teams sensing victory within their reach.

Loudest and rowdiest of all were those at Nick Bellamy’s table. Arthur Manning’s ironic intelligence and consummate professionalism managed, for the most part, to keep them under control, but it was touch-and-go all evening, 23and Melissa was hugely relieved when the final question had been asked.

What happened, though, as the final scores were being calculated and the winning team was about to be announced, took Melissa and all of the Ocean Bar by complete surprise.

As Melissa sat down, a voice came through the restaurant speakers.

It was a woman’s voice, loud and clear, easily heard over the buzz of conversation. But it was not a voice that Melissa recognised.

‘Hello everybody,’ said the voice. ‘It’s now time for the final round. A very special extra round of questions for you all!’

Melissa turned to Greg. ‘What is this?’

Greg’s eyes were wide with surprise.

‘This final round,’ said the voice, ‘is in honour of the six Balfour College friends who started all this, who were there at the very first quiz night twenty-five years ago. This final round is very straightforward. You’re about to hear an interesting fact about each of these six people. All you have to do is work out which of them is true.’

Murmurs and laughter spread round the room.

Melissa and Greg were still looking at each other, brittle smiles working hard to cover their concern.

‘Is this you?’ said Greg.

‘Of course not,’ said Melissa through ventriloquist lips.

‘Are you ready?’ said the voice. ‘Here they come. Number one. Greg Matthews plagiarised his first novel. True or false?’

All eyes in the restaurant turned to Greg. He faced them with pleading, upturned hands and as broad a smile as he could muster.

‘Number two. Fay Wetherby was bribed by parents not to expel their daughter. True or false?’

Fay Wetherby tilted her head to one side, raised her 24eyebrows and forced a smile. Her years as a headmistress had taught her how to wear an inscrutable expression, and she wore her best one now, nodding ironically to the other members of her team, as if this allegation, impressive in its inventiveness, might even be true.

‘Number three. Chris Turner has been blackmailed over a sex tape. Sextortioned. True or false?’

Chris spluttered on his wine, spraying it on the table, causing the members of his team to jump back in shock. ‘Sex tape!’ he said. ‘Chance would be a fine thing.’ He guffawed loudly – whether at the outrageous accusation or the wittiness of his response was not clear – and the table joined in. He briefly caught his wife’s eye. Kim was laughing too but he could tell that she was far from amused.

‘Number four. Nick Bellamy once killed a man. True or false?’

At Nick’s table there were whoops of laughter and roars of excitement.

‘What?’ said Nick, standing up and swaying. ‘Only one?’

The whoops became even louder.

‘Number five,’ said the voice. ‘Julia Forrest is a serial shoplifter, last caught in the act in Harvey Nicks. True or false?’

‘What?’ said Julia Forrest at her table, her face creased in puzzled disbelief, her hands spread in an appeal to common sense. ‘A shoplifter!’

‘Maybe they mean shirt-lifter,’ said one of her team.

‘She can’t be a shirt-lifter,’ said another, ‘that’s men.’

‘Shopfitter, perhaps,’ said another.

‘Shape-shifter!’

‘Hot shitter!’

As Julia’s team drunkenly riffed on the word ‘shoplifter’ the voice continued.

‘And finally, number six. Our hostess Melissa Matthews 25has a secret child from a teenage pregnancy. True or false? So which one is it, everybody? Which of these is true?’

Jaws dropped and mouths opened all over the Ocean Bar as gasps of astonishment, ripples of laughter and the occasional handclap punctured the uneasy silence.

‘What is this?’ said Melissa to Greg through gritted teeth. ‘What the fuck is going on?’

‘I have no idea,’ said Greg.

They both looked out onto the restaurant floor, hearing the buzz of laughter and speculation.

‘What do we do?’ said Melissa.

Greg moved to her side. ‘Pretend it was us,’ he said through the side of his mouth. ‘Pretend we did it.’

‘Pretend we did it? Why would we do a thing like that?’

‘As a joke.’

‘Are you serious?’

‘Have you got any better ideas?’

Melissa took a deep breath. She looked from Greg to the guests and then back to Greg. ‘OK, I’ll handle it. You go and see the manager. See if he knows what happened. Leave it to me.’

Greg headed towards the bar and Melissa tapped the microphone.

‘Thank you!’ she said, looking confidently round the room. She was doing her best to look cool, the way she did when the autocue stopped working. ‘Thank you!’ she said again, louder this time. The hum gradually quietened.

‘Well, I bet you didn’t expect that, did you?’ said Melissa.

‘What’s the answer?’ The loud shout came from Nick Bellamy’s table.

Melissa looked in its direction. Nick was on his feet, swaying as he turned from her to the guests. ‘Come on, Melissa, tell us which one’s true. We all want to know!’

26‘Ladies and gentlemen,’ said Melissa, ‘it goes without saying that none of those allegations is true.’

‘Bollocks!’ said Nick. ‘We all know which one’s true!’

There was a ripple of laughter from the guests. ‘Tell us, then!’ came a voice. It was followed by similar cries from other tables.

Melissa waited for silence. It was slow in coming. In her head she could hear the voice’s allegations and she sensed the whole room was hearing them too.

‘I hope you’ll forgive me that little indulgence.’ She was almost shouting to make herself heard. ‘My little joke. Just a bit of fun and, as I say, please don’t try too hard to find out which is true, because none of them is. It was simply a light-hearted way to mark this occasion, the twenty-fifth quiz.’

Nick Bellamy was still on his feet. ‘Come on, Melissa. Tell us! Which one’s true?’

Melissa ignored him. ‘And now, before I announce this year’s winning team I would just like to say a few words of thanks. First, thanks to Daisy and all the wonderful staff of the Ocean Bar for lending us their premises for tonight.’

Applause.

‘Thank you also to my quizmaster, Arthur Manning, for asking the questions with his usual style and aplomb.’

More applause.

‘Thank you to all of you for turning up, and for raising so much money for this year’s charity, which, as you know, is Kidsgo, the scheme which provides holidays for inner-city children.’

Another ripple of applause.

‘And now the results,’ said Melissa. ‘In reverse order. In third place, with sixty-seven points, is the Midnight Ramblers. In second place, with seventy points, is String of Pearls. So the winner tonight, with seventy-one points, is the 27Crack. Would team captain Nick Bellamy please come up to receive the prize.’

Nick’s reprobates were on their feet, whooping and jigging with delight, swigging from wine bottles and waving them around. Nick punched his hand in the air, bowing and waving as he waltzed his way through the tables to the applause of the Ocean Bar guests.

He was, thankfully, not allowed to give an acceptance speech.

28

5

Monday 25 March

The morning after the Ocean Bar Quiz, Julia Forrest rang Melissa.

‘How the hell did you come up with that?’

‘With what?’

‘That final round!’

‘Just a little joke,’ said Melissa.

‘It may have been a joke, but it shook a few of us up. Me a shoplifter! And Harvey Nicks!’

‘They’re not true. None of them.’

‘Are you sure about that? Your love child, Chris’s sex tape, Fay’s bribery. Greg’s first novel – you know, I always thought there was something familiar about that premise. And as for Nick killing a man, who knows with Nick? Did you see him last night? What the hell was he on?’

‘Listen, Julia. Thanks so much for calling.’ Melissa clearly wanted to draw the conversation to a close. ‘We really should get together soon, shouldn’t we? After all, we do live just round the corner from each other.’

29Julia knew only too well that they lived just round the corner from each other, but the boundary that corner marked, the one between rich Barnes and super-rich Barnes, was sometimes difficult to cross.

‘Let’s do that,’ said Julia, ‘it’s silly that we don’t see more of each other.’

It may have been silly, but Julia knew perfectly well why. Ever since things started going wrong for Lauren at St Mark’s, Melissa had been strangely unavailable when it came to meeting up.

She hung up and turned to her husband. ‘Do you really think Melissa and Greg were behind that last round?’

Phil Forrest kept his eyes on his iPad. ‘You clearly don’t.’

‘I was looking at her when that voice came on the speakers. She was flustered. They both were – you could see it in their faces. And the other thing about it is why? Why on earth would they do it?’

‘It was just a bit of fun.’

‘But was it? I mean, could any of them possibly be true? Of course I’m not a serial shoplifter – that’s completely ridiculous, but …’

‘So why did she say it, then?’

‘I have no idea.’

‘Well, she must have got the idea from somewhere.’

‘Unless …’

‘Unless what?’

‘Nothing.’

Phil looked up from his iPad, a sure sign of his concern. ‘Hang on. Is there something you need to tell me?’

‘No,’ said Julia. ‘Of course not. It’s just …’

‘Are you telling me you are a shoplifter?’

‘Of course not.’

‘Are you telling me you were a shoplifter?’

30‘No.’

‘You’re keeping something from me, aren’t you?’

‘Not as such, no …’

‘Not as such? What does that mean?’

‘Look,’ said Julia in a no-nonsense tone. ‘There was this time in Oxford when I was in the Covered Market with Melissa and there was this chi-chi boutique selling jewellery and this bracelet had fallen onto the floor near the door and we both looked at it, and before I knew what was happening, Melissa had bent down, picked it up and shoved it in her bag. She knew that I’d seen her and she gave me this look, as if to say, “Don’t say anything.”’

‘Why have you never told me this before?’

‘I’ve always felt embarrassed about it, and there never seemed an appropriate time, but now …’

‘But now she’s accused you of something she herself has done?’

‘I’m saying that she did it once. I don’t know if she’s done it since. With her money she clearly has no need to and hasn’t had the need to for some time.’

‘Doesn’t work like that, though, does it?’ said Phil. ‘Shoplifting bears no relation to need. Haven’t you read about all those famously wealthy people who’ve been caught nicking low-cost items? There was that TV woman who killed herself over it. Hang on, I’ll find it.’ He started scrolling on his iPad. ‘But if there’s something you need to tell me … I mean, we all have secrets. No matter how well you think you know someone, no matter how many years you’ve lived with them, you can still find something out about them that surprises you.’

‘I don’t believe this. Are you serious?’

‘Just saying.’ He held out his iPad. ‘Look. Here it is. Lady Isobel Barnett caught shoplifting in 1980. Stole a tin of tuna 31and a carton of cream worth eighty-seven pence from her village grocer. Fined seventy-five pounds and four days later she was found dead.’

‘How the hell did you know that?’ asked Julia, taking the iPad from him and starting to read.

‘How do you know anything?’ said Phil. ‘A question we were all asking ourselves last night.’

‘Look, it was just one moment a very long time ago. There’s no way that Melissa, with her millions, could possibly be a shoplifter.’

‘I think you’re taking it all too seriously. It was clearly a joke. Everyone was laughing their heads off.’

‘You weren’t looking at them very closely, were you? Fay Wetherby was shitting herself. She still had that tight-knickered headmistress look about her, but you could tell she was shaken. An accusation of that sort can wreck a school’s reputation in seconds. And heads nowadays, they’re like football managers. Their jobs are always under threat. And Chris – the look his wife was giving him! I mean we all know about their son and how difficult that must be for them and we also know about this sextortion thing. And, let’s face it, Chris has that look about him, doesn’t he?’

‘And what look’s that?’

‘The I’m-into-pornography look.’

‘There’s a look, is there?’

‘You can tell.’

‘Everyone watches pornography, dear.’

‘No they don’t. You don’t, do you?’

‘I don’t. Of course I don’t. When I said “everyone”, I meant everyone but me. But it’s more common than you think – these webcam sex-act scams are on the increase.’

‘You seem worryingly well informed.’

‘I’ve read about it.’

32‘Surely you remember the thing with Chris?’

‘What thing?’

‘At Oxford.’

Phil sighed. He gave his wife the look he had practised over the years. ‘I didn’t go to Oxford, remember?’

‘I must have told you.’

Phil shook his head.

‘He was caught doing something.’

‘Tell me.’

Julia shook her head. ‘It doesn’t matter. I’m just saying that yet again there’s something plausible in that accusation. It’s the kind of thing that Chris might get up to.’

‘You’ve got to tell me now.’

‘OK,’ said Julia. ‘This is what happened …’

But, as she told her husband about Chris’s alleged misdemeanour she was wondering what it was that had made her come up with the shoplifting lie and whether she had got away with it.

She was also wondering what everyone else had made of that final round.

When Fay Wetherby heard that Julia was on the line, she was in two minds over whether or not to take the call. Last night had been a huge embarrassment. The quiz itself had been fine, but what happened at the end had been far from amusing. Melissa and Greg might have thought it funny, but Fay could not have been the only one to find the whole thing uncomfortable. She might have managed to smile her way through it, forcing laughs as she lightly dismissed the accusation of bribery, but it had taken some doing.

‘Put her through,’ she said to her secretary.

‘Fay,’ said Julia, ‘just thought I’d call to see how you are after last night.’

33‘I’m fine,’ said Fay.

She knew she wasn’t. Underneath the professional façade she had learned to maintain in all circumstances she was worried, fearing above all what might leak into that evening’s Standard. She had already checked online but, so far, nothing. A few tweets had thanked the Ocean Bar and Melissa for the great evening and some had even tweeted about the surprise final round, but she had found nothing that detailed the contents, nothing that would set the parental antennae twitching.

‘Some way to mark the twenty-fifth,’ said Julia.

‘Yes,’ said Fay, ‘I’m not sure that’s how I’d have chosen to do it, but each to their own.’

‘I won’t keep you long,’ said Julia, ‘but I just wanted to ask whether you think it really was Melissa and Greg behind it.’

‘That’s what I’ve been assuming,’ said Fay, even though she had been asking herself the same question.

‘I was looking closely at them when it happened,’ said Julia, ‘and I could see their surprise. I got the sense they were covering it up.’

‘If it wasn’t them, who was it?’ said Fay.

‘I have no idea, but I just wanted to share the thought. I mean, I’m not a shoplifter, and as for you taking bribes – ridiculous!’

‘Exactly!’

‘Anyway, good to see you last night and let’s get together soon. Lunch. Dinner. Coffee.’

‘Good idea,’ said Fay, hanging up and checking Twitter one more time before heading off to the day’s first meeting.

‘Chris? It’s Julia.’

Chris stood in the Finsbury Park kitchen, glass of wine in hand, hovering over the cooker.

34‘Julia, hi. Recovered from last night?’

‘Have you?’

‘I think so.’

Chris looked at his wife as she came through the door. The truth was he hadn’t yet recovered from last night. If that had been someone’s idea of a joke, then he didn’t share their sense of humour. As soon as he heard the words ‘sex tape’ come over the speakers he could see Kim looking at him with that self-righteous, accusatory glare he had become accustomed to over the years. It was the look she had worn throughout the whole round of allegations, almost as if she was pleased it was happening, and it was the look she was wearing now as she pointed at the phone in his hand and mouthed the question, ‘Who is it?’

‘Julia,’ whispered Chris. Her look darkened.

‘Just thought I’d give you a call to see what you made of it all,’ said Julia.

‘You mean those questions at the end? Well, I think the only sensible response is to laugh them off.’

‘I agree, especially as none of them is true.’

‘Exactly.’

‘What I can’t work out, though,’ said Julia, ‘is why Melissa and Greg thought it was a good idea.’

‘Yeah. I’ve been wondering that myself.’

‘That is, if it was them behind it.’

‘You mean …?’

‘Just an idea. The more I think about it, the more it seems exactly like the kind of thing Nick Bellamy might dream up. The state of him last night!’

‘Still, at least he made it this year.’

‘Actually, I’ve been trying to get hold of him but having no luck. Do you have a number for him?’

‘I’ll have a look and get back to you.’

35‘Great. And, Chris, given that there won’t be another quiz to get us together, maybe we should meet up some time. You, Kim, me, Phil. It would be good.’

‘Yeah, let’s do that.’

Chris hung up and looked at the phone as if he couldn’t believe what it had just told him. He looked at Kim. She was sitting at the kitchen table, her head in a newspaper.

‘Let’s do what?’ she said, without looking up.

‘Oh, nothing.’

‘Tell me.’ Kim’s head was still down.

‘Just Julia saying we should get together some time.’

‘I can’t think of anything worse.’

‘I know. I think she was just being polite.’

Kim was still not looking at him. Ever since hearing the word ‘sex tape’ in public she had behaved as if the accusation levelled at him, unlike the others, were true.

Chris knew that it wasn’t, but he also knew why she might think that it was.

Melissa Matthews sat opposite Greg at the dining table. Between them was a copy of the Evening Standard.

About Town with Forbes