Nicci French - Until it's Over

‘Have you thought you might be in danger?’ Mick said suddenly.

We stared at him and he stared back, his pale blue eyes unblinking.

‘I thought it briefly,’ I said finally, ‘after I hit the door of Peggy’s car and I was flying through the air.’

‘What danger could she possibly be in?’ said Davy.

Mick just shrugged.

‘You’re a bloody idiot,’ Davy said, with unaccustomed ferocity. ‘It’s bad enough for Astrid as it is.’

‘Thanks, Davy,’ I said. ‘But I’m OK.’

On the Downs we sat on the warm grass while we waited for the match to start. Davy pulled a bundle of papers out of the plastic bag and tossed them towards me. ‘Something to read while we’re playing,’ he said.

‘Why so many?’ I asked, or started to ask, but then I saw the headlines.

‘I thought you should be informed,’ said Davy, awkwardly. ‘Was I wrong?’

‘No,’ I said slowly. ‘No, I guess not.’

We picked up papers and rifled through them, skimming the front news stories, the features and the comment pieces, avidly swapping bits of information. Of course, I should have expected a lot of coverage of Ingrid de Soto ’s murder, but even so I was taken aback by quite how much there was. Much more than Peggy’s, but then, as Miles remarked acidly, Peggy had been a middle-aged, unphotogenic housewife in Hackney, whereas Ingrid de Soto was blonde, glamorous, rich and the right side of forty. ‘Money, sex and death,’ he said. ‘All that’s missing is religion.’

It was true that money and sex featured in many of the stories, and even God slipped in once or twice, via an interview with a local vicar, who’d clearly never met Ingrid de Soto but was eloquent about the nature of good and evil and the decline of traditional values in our celebrity-obsessed and faith-deprived contemporary culture.

The football started. There was a lot of yelling and grown men rolling over pretending to be hurt. People kept shouting, ‘Ref,’ and holding up a finger. Mick scored two goals, one with his head. Dario lurked by the touchline. Mel went away and came back with three ice-cream cones for Pippa, me and herself. Owen got hit by a high tackle and I saw a bruise shaped like an egg form on his shin.

While it went on, I learned a great deal about the dead woman that I hadn’t known. I found out that she was thirty-two (I’d always fancied her to be older, because of her chilly, well-bred politeness, and her tall, co-ordinated house, which had the kind of affluent respectability that seemed horribly grown-up to someone like me). That she had moved from Hong Kong to London, and to Highgate, seven years ago. That her husband, Andrew de Soto, was the manager of a hedge fund, whatever that was. He was reported to be devastated by his wife’s death. But Ingrid de Soto was rich through her father as well as her husband: William Hamilton was in oil, a millionaire many times over. She was his only child and he was flying to London to see her body. She had no children (I’d known that – no house could ever look so flawless with a child). Highgate neighbours were ‘shocked and appalled’. Friends were shocked and appalled too. They described her as ‘lovely’ and ‘smart’. She had no enemies, apparently: everyone liked her.

‘They didn’t talk to any of us despatch riders, did they?’ I said.

‘Did you dislike her, then?’ asked Mel, her eyes round with horror.

‘We dislike everybody,’ I said. ‘The whole world is basically against us. “Horror on the Hill”,’ I read from a headline.

‘Hey, what’s this?’ Pippa shook her paper in front of me. ‘ “Ingrid de Soto ’s body was found at her exclusive Highgate home by bike messenger, Alice Bell…” ’

‘ Alice?’

‘ “… Alice Bell, who is said to be very traumatized by her experience.” ’

I grabbed the paper from Pippa’s hands. ‘Where?’

‘It must be a later edition.’

‘Who said I was very upset?’

‘Well, you were, weren’t you?’

‘Of course I was. Am. That’s not the point. How do they know about me?’

‘ Alice,’ said Pippa.

‘Why would they tell them my name – not my name, as it happens?’

‘It doesn’t really matter, does it?’ asked Mel.

‘I don’t know. It feels odd, that’s all. Everything feels odd at the moment. It feels like everything’s gathering a momentum of its own.’

‘I’ve got something to say,’ announced Davy, as we sat round with bottles of water and cans of beer after the match had finished, no one really wanting to return to the house.

‘Go on, then,’ said Pippa.

‘Really, Dario’s got something to say,’ said Davy.

‘Have I? I don’t think so.’

‘Yeah. Sorry, Dario, but you have.’

‘I don’t know what you’re on about.’

‘I’m sure it’ll turn out to be nothing. But someone died. Two people died. And you’ve got to come clean.’

Dario spluttered.

‘Come on, mate,’ said Davy. I could see he was nervous. Making a stand like this wasn’t in character for him.

Dario stubbed out his cigarette, ground it, then lit another. We waited in silence. ‘I’ve got nothing to hide,’ he said eventually. ‘It’s true that Astrid was right when she thought she saw someone. It was a guy who lives round the corner. He dropped round. He was on his way out when you appeared.’

‘Why was he there?’ asked Miles.

Another silence. Dario gulped. ‘Just collecting something.’

‘What?’

‘Is that any of your business?’

‘Dario?’ I said. ‘Just tell us.’

‘I’d got some stuff for him. And he came over to collect it.’

‘Stuff?’ Miles’s voice had sunk to a kind of growl.

‘Yeah. Stuff.’

‘As in what? Weed?’

‘I’ve had some cash-flow problems. I needed some money to see me through. So. As you see, it wasn’t relevant. But I didn’t want to shout about it in front of the police. And don’t blame Davy. I asked him not to tell you.’

‘You fucking idiot,’ said Miles.

‘What?’ said Dario.

‘You’ve been dealing out of this house?’ he said.

‘It was just a favour for a friend.’

‘How dare you?’ Miles said.

‘I’m sorry,’ said Dario. ‘I didn’t realize there was a house rule.’

A row of some kind started. I heard it as if it was the wind blowing through the trees, but I paid no attention to the meaning. I was trying to think and for a moment I put my hands over my ears. Then I made my mind up. ‘What’s his name?’ I said.

‘What?’

‘Your druggie friend.’

‘He’s not a druggie. He works in advertising.’

What’s his name?’

‘Lee.’

‘You know where he lives?’

‘I’ve got his number somewhere.’

‘You should call him.’

‘You don’t know what you’re asking.’

‘I do. And, Pippa -’

‘Oh, for God’s sake,’ said Pippa, ‘what is this? The Inquisition? OK, OK, I’ll tell the police about Jeff. Happy now?’

Monday morning, and I was wheeling my bike along the alley beside the house when something flashed. I blinked, looked up and it happened again. Then I realized two men were standing on the pavement outside the house, and one was taking photographs. Taking photographs of me. I put up a hand to shield my eyes and stared at them.

‘Miss Bell?’ one called.

‘ Alice?’ shouted the other.

‘Oh, for God’s sake,’ I muttered under my breath. ‘It’s Astrid,’ I said. ‘Astrid Bell. Where did you get the Alice from, anyway?’

The man without a camera shrugged. ‘You found the body, right?’

Something about the language made me wince. The body. As if the poor woman was just a thing, a meaningless object I had happened to stumble across. There was a short silence. The photographer raised his camera again and fired off a few shots.