David Balaam - No One Is Sacrosanct

“Hello, I’m Christine Ling. What was your connection with Mandy?” She asked politely. The taller and senior of the group nodded and offered his hand.

“I’m Lionel Lancaster, editor of the weekly Guardian. We were just recalling some silly antidotes about Mandy.” Lionel was over six feet tall and Christine suspected he was a jovial and congenial man at any other time, and from what she remembered Mandy telling her, a great boss.

“That’s what should happen at funerals; remembering the good times about a person,” Christine said, looking at each of the others in turn.

“Sorry,” Lionel said. Let me introduce you.” And he promptly reeled off everyone's names. “This is even sadder for most of us. It’s the second funeral we have been to this year, and its only May.”

“I’m sorry,” Christine said, somewhat surprised. “Was it for a work colleague?”

“Yes,” Lionel answered gravely. “Not sure if you knew him . . . Graham King, our crossword wizard.” Christine thought deeply. “Yes, of course. I’m so sorry, was he ill?”

“Heart attack, apparently,” Lionel replied.

“Why apparently? Was he not ill? Christine inquired.

“Fitter than anyone I know. Did the Marathon every year. Cycled to work every day, regardless of the weather. Never had a day off sick in all the time I knew him, then suddenly, wham, he keels over.”

“It's not unheard of,” Christine ventured.

“True, but now this sad event with Mandy; it hit us all very hard. By the way, is there any news on the driver – did they get anywhere in finding the bastard?” He asked bitterly.

“I am sorry, Lionel, it's not my province any more, but I will look into it if I can. Can I come to the office before I leave tomorrow to talk some more?”

Lionel beamed. “It will be a pleasure to see you again. Anytime, but around lunchtime is always good.”

Christine excused herself and searched out Mr and Mrs Silver to say goodbye and pass on her sympathies, when she saw someone standing in the doorway, looking in her direction. At least she assumed he was looking at her.

Seeing Mr Silver not far from where the man was standing, she walked slowly over to him. “Mr Silver, I’m Christine Ling. I am so sorry . . ” but was interrupted by Mrs Silver who had joined them. “We know who you are. What we what to know is what are the police doing about catching the drunk driver that killed my darling Mandy . . .” and wept uncontrollably on her husband's shoulder.

“I’m sorry Christine. Its been very hard for her, for us both. Thank you for coming.” Mr Silver said, and walked slowly away with his wife clinging to his shoulder. Christine sneaked a casual glance to where the man had been standing, but he was not there. Looking around the room she could not see him anywhere. Letting her curiosity take the better of her, she left the room and looked around the reception area and even the carpark on her way out, but she saw no one. Accepting she was being slightly paranoid, she took a taxi back to her city centre hotel.

The lights of the city were too bright so she closed the curtains; darkness was more conducive to her mood. She slipped off her coat letting it fall and fell backwards onto the bed. She lay staring at the white ceiling, her memory playing movies of the fun times she and Mandy had had over the years - ice skating at Whitley Bay Ice Rink – Mandy telling her off for being late, again, at the wine bar – feeding the penguins at the zoo – their last Easter weekend away at Edinburgh – getting tipsy at a friend’s wedding and having to leave early because they could not stop laughing . . . Christine turned over and buried her head in the pillow, and let everything she had been bottling up come out. Sleep eventually came to her in the early hours of the morning, but she was in no hurry to wake up.

Loud knocking on the bedroom door eventually roused her. It was the maid, who she sent away, and ordered breakfast in her room. Having showered and devoured some tea and toast she plugged in her mobile, which had been left on all night so the battery was now flat. Checking it, she had three missed calls from Clive, her husband. “Hi, love. Sorry, but I was clean exhausted by the time I got back from the wake. How are the girls.?”

“They are fine and missing you, as am I.” Neither spoke for a few moments. “I know funerals are shitty, love, especially when it’s a friend . . .”

“But that’s the strange part, Clive. It was like I was a stranger among so many people. I considered myself her best friend, but no one knew me and I knew no one. How could that be?”

“Hey, don’t start reading into something that’s not there. Remember you’re retired now, and we need you.”

“I know, but several people, including Mr and Mrs Silver, asked me about the hit and run driver, and if any progress had been made in finding him, so I thought I would look by the office before I catch the flight home, just to put their mind at rest.” Christine could hear him smiling.

“Considering you know what I do for a living, you could have made up a better excuse, but hey, it's good. You may be able to give them some closure.”

They finished with kisses for him and the girls. She had never been away from them before, and she was feeling the strain. She packed what little she had brought with her and checked out of the hotel. “Someone left a message for you, madam.” The receptionist said, handing her an envelope.

Christine opened it thinking it was maybe from the Guardian newspaper cancelling their meeting, or from Mr Silver about his wife's outburst, but Christine stared at the typed note and read it twice;

Mandy knew the answer

She told an old friend by the sea. MH

“Are you OK, miss?” The receptionist asked, seeing Christine was about to faint.

“It can’t be him . . . it can’t be . . . he's dead.”

Lionel Lancaster poured Christine a large brandy. “Here my girl, get that down you. You look like you have had a nasty shock.”

Christine could barely remember getting a taxi to the Guardian's offices and making her way up to the executive suite where Lionel Lancaster met her. His cheery greeting turned to one of concern as soon as he saw her. He sat her on the black leather sofa and poured her a drink. Christine took a sip, then another. “I don’t usually drink this early, but thank you, I needed that.”

Lionel sat opposite her but said nothing. He knew she would talk to him eventually. He suddenly rose and picked up a photo from his desk. “This is Mandy at her book launch. She said you deserved credit as well but you wouldn't take it for some reason.”

Christine took the framed photo and smiled at her friend holding up a copy of The Rope Killer.

“I couldn't. Professional detachment.” She said wearily, handing back the photograph.

“Lionel . . . I was sent a note at my hotel this morning which caught me unawares, to say the least.” She sipped at the brandy. Lionel said nothing. “Did Mandy leave any notes about the Rope Killer here?”

“Yes, maybe. She did all her research on her office laptop, but she was not good at keeping written references. Something we often argued over.”

Christine smiled. “I can imagine who won that argument.”

Lionel nodded in agreement. “So, what is it you are looking for that the police don’t know about?”

Christine opened her handbag and passed the envelope to Lionel. She knew fingerprinting it would be of no use, especially if it was Marcus Hartmann. Lionel read it, folded it neatly and handed it back. “If he died then you have an imposter. If he did not die, then you have a murderer still at large.”

Christine had just heard aloud the very thoughts she dared not utter herself. Lionel could see she was hesitating. Wondering if she could trust him. “Christine. Anything you say in this room, I promise you, will remain confidential until you tell me otherwise. I do have a paper to run after all. What are you thinking?”