Guy Cullingford and The Murder Room

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The Murder Room

Where Criminal Minds Meet

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Bother at the Barbican

Guy Cullingford

Chapter One

“Do you know . . .” began Mrs Harris and stopped aghast, her hand over her mouth. She had been going to say, “Do you know that this is the first funeral I’ve seen leaving here since we came.”

It was the sort of remark, light-hearted intimate comment, that had often passed between herself and her husband. It was his funeral.

It was true that the Barbican was at its most discreet in the disposal of bodies. A fall from a tower block, a collapse at a concert, a mummified corpse in a luggage locker; any such minor irregularities were tidied away promptly; the sole obsequies being, as far as one knew, only the muted whispers of porters.

And, indeed, why should the well-heeled residents be constantly reminded by a benign management that life was fleeting? They had enough of that in the newspapers and on their television screens.

Mr Harris was different. He had been a tenant of long standing. He had lived here, paying his rent and rates on the day they came when the theatre was still a hole in the ground. Though he had been a person of repute in his day, since his retirement he had felt no further desire to shine in public. He cheerfully paid subscriptions to societies with good motives, but accepted no duties. He bought tickets for functions he had no intention of attending. He gave no offence to his neighbours and never complained of their little idiosyncracies. He might not be known by name to most of them but he was recognised as a pleasant and unassuming man. When he died, with the valid excuse of old age, the Barbican was ready to do him justice.

The funeral cortège gathered and left from the forecourt. At first his widow, reading from the undertaker’s brochure that all coffins would be collected from the deceased’s place of residence, had a moment’s fanciful vision of a hearse rising to the fourth floor. A wild notion. The funeral party went down in the lift, along the podium and descended the steps where the coffin, bedecked and in position, awaited them. It was a dull and draughty day at eleven o’clock in the morning. The funnelled wind blew its customers into Crispin’s and there were few onlookers. The Director – and surely this was too important a description of one looking so shabby? – shepherded the company into the rather antique limousines and off they went, through the mouth of the tunnel and into Aldersgate.

In the first of the cars rode Mrs Harris as chief mourner accompanied by her two brothers and only sister. Mrs Harris had made up her mind not to weep if she could help it, so she concentrated her attention on the route to the crematorium. As a drive it was dismal. They wound their way through the back streets, passing terrace after terrace of hard-wearing but hideous houses, whose ground floor view of their neighbours’ look-alikes across the road was blocked by the coloured lozenges of parked cars.

“Exorbitant,” muttered Rupert to his brother Fred, after a hasty glance to see how thick was the glass separating him from the driver. He had arranged the funeral himself and he knew that the cost would come out of Hugh’s estate. All the same the amount, London-weighted, nagged at him. Fred nodded but hoped that his widowed sister had not heard the grumble. His other sister made a warning face at him. But Mrs Harris continued to gaze steadfastly through the side window. She would rather listen to the racket of concrete mixers and power drills than anything that any of her relations might say. She would rather see hoardings and scaffoldings; obsolete monstrosities being torn down, office buildings, equally monstrous, being built up. She would rather see diggers with ugly square mouths cramming rubble into their maws, giant cranes teetering crazily into the sky; anything, anything, rather than see the back of what they were following.

Still the sad procession crawled on at its decorous pace, sometimes blocked by some cumbersome vehicle going even more slowly.

Out of the side of her eye, Mrs Harris caught Rupert consulting his watch.

Oh, dear, we shall be late, she thought. How vexed Hugh would be! It was a phobia of his which had often brought them to the railway station in time to catch the train before the one on which they intended to travel.

At last they arrived. They went through the iron gates and between clusters of small, dirty crosses, relics of the old cemetery. They came to a halt by a low wall against which leant a dispirited group of plastic-shrouded flowers. And lo and behold, they were too early, not too late.

The Director eased open the door gingerly as though afraid that one of the occupants of the tip-up seats might fall out, and remarked, sotto voce, to the Chief Mourner: “I’m sorry, Madam. We shall have to wait a few minutes. The chapel has not yet been vacated.”

At these words a heavy load slipped from the heart of Mrs Harris.

This was simply business, a recognised ritual in the interest of hygiene; no more than Corporation dust carts queueing up at the rubbish disposal tip. What did it matter now? What was the significance of the undertaker’s delicate probing? Would she like the curtain drawn at the finale? Would she like the ashes scattered in the Garden of Remembrance or would she prefer them in a neat little urn, carefully numbered and stored? Which did she favour, piped music or the harmonium?

This was absurd and nothing to do with her long marriage to Hugh. The sweet and the sour of it, the hopes and the fears. The gradual acceptance of each other’s faults and virtues, the welding together of two individuals into something stronger than either, and so subtly that an outsider could not even detect the join.

She watched with sublime indifference through the open chapel door as the outgoing party made its exit from the other side of the building. She was prepared to do whatever was expected of her.

In due course, perhaps sooner than was generally supposed, the same charade would be enacted over her own discarded flesh and bones. She was content.

But she did hope that when it was all over, one of the family would give the representatives of the undertakers a good tip. They looked as if they could do with it. Whoever it was, it wouldn’t be Rupert.

“It’s just like the inside of an American prison as seen on TV,” said Malcolm, standing a little aloof and staring out from his aunt’s plate-glass window at the flats opposite. It was in reality two windows, one fixed and one sliding, which ran the whole breadth of the room.

“No. It reminds me much more of a building set I had as a child. Wooden, of course. Miniature planks of all sizes, including some stubby ones to be used as uprights and on which one balanced dear little half moon arches to give the effect you observe over there.”

“I like my idea best,” insisted Malcolm. Indeed he did, always. That was his misfortune. And perhaps in this instance “best” was the proper word and not “better”.

“Look, you must admit,” he continued indulging in a new flight of fancy, “neat, identical cells, row upon row. Just to prove my point, here come two warders to take a snoop over the rails.”

“Silly boy,” said his aunt, moving up to him, “they are staff from the penthouses, watering the window boxes.”

“Who lives there?” asked Malcolm idly.

“How should I know? Someone once told me that they belong to the architects who designed the whole place.”

“I shouldn’t think that they would want to dwell on their misdeeds.”

He turned sideways so that he could better examine the residents’ garden far below, with its very green grass and the horse-chestnut trees still a long way off from producing their candles. Meanwhile his aunt examined him. Though he was Rupert’s son he was nothing like Rupert. There’s nothing really wrong with his profile, she admitted to herself. He might be quite passable if he would get his hair cut and shampooed.

He was ill-groomed and slovenly clad, looking like an immature, grant-aided art student which was just what he claimed to be, as it happened.

“What is that ominous building which rears up behind, Aunt Bert?”

She was disconcerted for a moment. “Bert” was her name, short for Bertha, an abbreviation used by her brothers and sister for as long as she could remember. His aunt she certainly was too. It was the combination that she had never before encountered.

“They call it ‘The Bastion’, I believe.”

“Good for them. Who guards it?”

“Some say that it belongs to Japanese bankers. It’s very mysterious. Often the lights are left on all night.”

“A common practice in offices. It’s as cheap as turning them on and off. Safer too.”

“Yes, but now and again they are turned off. All but one window.”

“Curious race, the Japanese. No accounting for them.”

“Sometimes two men stand right on top of the building. Those can’t be Japanese. They’re giants.”

“It’s only perspective.”

“Yes, but I don’t honestly think . . . your uncle and I thought that more likely it was a plant generating electricity for the whole complex. Occasionally it belches forth thick black smoke.”

“Like Under the Volcano, eh?”

“I didn’t know you read Lowry.”

“Oh, I see films. And we share the first name.”

He swivelled to look in the other direction, remarking: “And then there’s the church.”

“St Giles, yes.”

He locked his fingers together in nursery fashion and then turned his wrist, showing the fingers criss-crossed.

“And there are the people.”

She laughed. “One man and a dog.”

“Aunt Bert, you are a funny one. You haven’t the slightest urge to find out what actually goes on behind those façades. A neighbour spins you a yarn. You half-believe, half-reject.”

“It doesn’t worry me. I suppose I’m not inquisitive.”

“What did I say! Now, if I were in your shoes, I should be out and about all over the place, spying out the land.”

“You wouldn’t be exactly popular,” she remarked dryly. “Most people in the Barbican like to keep their affairs private.”

“Ah, but what power I should have! It would be far more exciting than life classes at Chelsea.”

He paused, then posed the question.

“Are you going to stay on here?”

“I don’t see why not.”

“Well, the rents . . .”

“Hugh didn’t take his money with him.”

Or leave any legacies, the meany, thought Malcolm.

But he said, biting back any criticism of his uncle which he guessed would not be welcomed: “Won’t you be lonely?”

“People are so kind. You’d be astonished how sympathetic they are. Even the porters.”

“Yes, – now. It may wear off. Never mind, I shall keep you cheered up.”

She wasn’t sure that she felt properly grateful for this reassurance. His visit had come as a complete surprise.

Her legs began to ache as they did nowadays after standing.

“Let’s sit down, shall we?”

They sat down side by side on the sofa, still looking out upon the apparently deserted rows of flats which Malcolm evidently believed held many delirious secrets.

Mrs Harris might not be inquisitive but she was perceptive. And sitting there in a blessed hiatus of silence she decided that it would not be wise to let Malcolm come to the conclusion that she was rolling in money and all alone in the world.

To this effect, she began to speak in a quiet, meditative voice, rather different from their previously animated bantering.

“There are those who are convinced that the Barbican is inhabited only by the wealthy. Once I heard one of the guides with a tour proclaiming to his group that ‘this is where the rich live’.”

As Malcolm declined to comment, she continued: “It may be so in the tower blocks. I don’t know about them, but these are only the old council flats.”

Malcolm came to life suddenly.

“If all council flats were like these, there’d be no riots.”

He surprised her. She would not have thought that moral indignation was his forte.

“Cement is a ghastly material,” he went on. “Fit for nothing but sticking bricks together. From outside these flats are an abomination. Inside they are ideal.”

“You’re not serious?”

“Oh yes, I am. This room, for instance. Just the right size.”

“The right size for what?”

“For a party, of course. You’d need to move some of the furniture into the corridor. You could serve drinks from the kitchen counter. It would make a splendid small bar.”

By “you” did he mean her or “one”? she wondered.

“Then there’s the separate loo and the bathroom. So convenient if you have to throw up.”

“Malcolm!” she protested.

“And that super bedroom. Naturally you and Uncle Hugh had twin beds but I’d go for a big double, exotic and fabulous, straight out of Harrods.”

He had gone too far. His prattle ceased to amuse her.

She said slowly, as if seeking the right words, “Some things are better not mocked. Hugh and I loved living here. It was just the place for us. We could be absolutely private yet we never felt shut off from the world.”

She turned away from him and, using the arm of the sofa to help herself up, stumbled off in the direction of the fitted kitchen which adjoined the living room. Immediately he was on his feet, all concern.

“Is there anything I can do, Aunt Bert? What do you want?”

She stood quite still.

“I want Hugh back,” she said.

The compression of great grief into a single sentence unnerved him as nothing else would have done. He was prepared for a few facile tears. It was an acknowledged fact that the old have parted with their deeper emotions. He was shocked into stuttering, “I’m sorry . . . really, I n-never meant. . . . Look here, what about a nice cup of t-tea?”

It was all he could think of at the moment. Women had hot cups of tea in times of stress and then they felt better.

There was a pause while she struggled to regain her composure. After which she remarked in a steady voice: “Do you know, I’d much prefer a glass of red wine.”

“Well, that’s easy. There must have been plenty left over after the fu—” Here he came to a halt.

“It was all done by caterers. When they cleared up they took away what was left over.”

She went on into the kitchen and gazed up vaguely at the glass-fronted cupboard. Truly, all that it now contained was a bottle of dry sherry and another of soda water.

He came round and joined her, slipping a scarecrow arm about her shoulders. She could feel the boniness of it through her cardigan and strangely enough it was comforting.

“I’ve an idea,” he said. “The wine bar is just about opening. Let’s trot across there and have a snack and a glass of their plonk. Do us both good.” He gave her a quizzing glance. “That’s unless you’re too proud?”

“Oh, no. Hugh and I often went there before he became too ill.”

“Right. You go and make ready and I’ll pull the curtains. Make it more cosy for when you come back.”

But when she disappeared in the direction of the bedroom, and he had done what he had himself suggested, he made a swift return to the kitchen for a quick, silent scrutiny. He opened drawers, looked in cupboards and even managed a peep into the fridge. There was very little food besides nothing to drink. All it felt safe to acquire were two silver teaspoons which he slipped into the pocket of his lamentable jeans. Not till he heard the flush of the loo did he drag on his own outer raiment which had come to him from Lillywhite’s, via Oxfam.

His aunt was wearing an expensive tweed coat and carried her handbag. He held the door open for her and remarked: “Shall I leave on the light? It scares away burglars.”

When they emerged from the lift on to the podium, it was already dusk and the lights were on in the Barbican Centre as they would be all night. But the steps down to it as yet carried no pedestrian traffic. It was too early for theatre and concert-goers. They were the first in at the wine bar moreover, though later on some nights it would be packed. He had his hand lightly under her elbow as they crossed the slippery tiles and then settled her at a table for two at the end furthest away from the bar. As he started off to go to it, she slipped into his hand a ten pound note which she had tucked up her sleeve.

He gave her a grateful look but a few steps away he returned to whisper that wine was cheaper by the bottle than by the glass. At any other time she might have questioned this logic. Now she simply opened her purse and added another ten to the first. Off he went.

Although the curtains were drawn, the place was still chilly, lacking the warmth contributed by a crowd. She shivered a little and it seemed an age before he returned with a bottle and two glasses. He poured for them both and touched her glass with his before drinking thirstily.

“Ah, that’s better,” he said. “I ordered quiche for us both, hot. It looked the best bet. The girl will bring it.”

“I don’t feel hungry.”

“Never mind, you can toy with it. Drink up, you look as if you need it.”

Meekly she obeyed.

“I thought we might run into Jilly. But Rosie says she won’t be in tonight.”

Jilly was the daughter of Bertha’s sister Alice, and her niece. Mrs Harris had a misty recollection of being told that Jilly was attending the Guildhall School of Music and Drama and of meeting her at the funeral party. But somehow, after returning to the flat on that day, events had ceased to register. She knew that someone had relieved her of her wrappings and put her into a chair. She supposed that she had replied automatically to whatever was said to her. She knew that her relations were being catered for by previous arrangement. The bill had been paid. It was purely a family gathering – her family for Hugh had none living. She had been conscious of one thought only that was perfectly clear; the burning wish to see them all depart, and as quickly as possible.

“Is this a haunt of Jilly’s?” she asked, the wine reviving her. “If so Hugh and I never saw her.”

“But you would have come at lunch time, I expect, along with the Yuppies and their PAs. Jilly doesn’t show up until evening. She only comes here for the bread.”

“Really? Is there something special about it?”

“You are an old duck,” he said, giving her a grin usually associated with gargoyles. “Bread stands for money. In your day it was dough. Tomorrow they may be calling it pasta. It’s all the same thing. The stuff you need to sustain life.”

“Is Jilly hard-up, then?” she asked. “I should have thought . . .” But she didn’t say what she thought which was that Jilly’s parents were prosperous enough to give their daughter a decent allowance.

“All the young are hard-up. Didn’t you know that, Aunt Bert?”

At this moment Rosie arrived with their portions; two large slices for Malcolm and one small slice for his aunt. This did not trouble Bertha who had little regard for the English version of the quiche. To accompany this was a good slice from a French loaf – real bread, not silly slang – with a metal knife and fork done up in a serviette, a nasty word for a nasty object.

Malcolm began to devour his snack with great gusto but Bertha crumbled her bread and meditated upon Jilly. After which she took a swig of her red wine, which mysteriously never grew less, and demanded: “What does Jilly do here?”

Little maggots of worry crawled in her brain for what did young girls do in wine bars?

“She waits at table.”

“Oh!”

Mrs Harris, democrat though she was, blenched at this occupation. Malcolm, glancing up with a piece of mushroom speared on his fork, observed, “We all of us wait . . . for Godot . . . or the big bomb. Besides, she likes to escape from her pad – her digs, I mean. She shares with two other females, both dreadful bores.”

Actually, they were Lesbians which was not Jilly’s style.

“Well, it’s nothing to do with me, of course. I don’t suppose I shall ever see her again.”

“Oh, but you will. Both she and Donald have made up their minds.”

“Was Donald the other boy at the funeral?”

“No, that was Gus in his civvies. He’s a novice at a place called St Joe’s not more than two stations away from you. Donald said he couldn’t get the time off. He works at a bank and is a great one for duty. My belief is that he wanted to dodge his old man. They are too much alike and quarrel like cats.”

“And you and your father?”

“We’re so different that already I can feel your heart warming towards me.”

At this they looked each other full in the face, his eyes stony and impenetrable, hers blurred and bewildered.

“I don’t understand this sudden interest in me,” she said. “You none of you came to call when Hugh was alive.”

“He wouldn’t have stood for it.”

That was true enough. Hugh would have been perfectly polite but he would soon have shown them the door. She supposed she could do the same even if at the moment she felt like a hermit crab without its shell.

He put the last morsel of quiche into his mouth and straightened his knife and fork.

“Don’t fret about it, Aunt Bert. You haven’t even taken a bite out of yours. Let me take it away and bring you a slice of gooey chocolate cake with a dollop of cream on the top.”

A prolonged shudder was sufficient answer.

“Well, I’ll fetch one for me and a cup of coffee for you to put steel in your legs.”

With this delicacy consumed, the wine bottle emptied and her coffee drunk, he rose suddenly from his chair and came over to hers, ready to pull it back for her as she followed his example.

“Time I got back to my cardboard box on the Embankment before some other feller takes a fancy to it.”

“Oh, Malcolm, don’t be so silly.”

“Well, what I do have isn’t much better, you can take my word for it. I’ll see you back home.”

This he proceeded to do, opening both doors for her, the one from the podium and the one giving entry to her own flat as the same key did for both. The only trouble was that she couldn’t personally seem able to get it into the hole.

“See you soon,” he promised, and stepped back into the lift which he had put on hold.

Unwashed, uncombed and without cleaning her teeth, she collapsed into bed in her petticoat and pulled up the duvet. But doped by alcohol and stimulated by caffeine, before she fell into the heavy, dreamless sleep of exhaustion, she thought to herself: Surely there should have been some change from twenty pounds?

The maimed person, whose state would have been described by a hospital as “critical”, had turned the corner and was now on the perilous road to stability.