Quick and the Dead

An Alex Quick Mystery

Severn House Publishers Limited

That year, the weather changed overnight. Fast and hard. On Saturday afternoon, there were blue skies and the weak pee-coloured sunshine of mid-winter. By Sunday morning, it had turned gut-wrenchingly cold: heavy clouds, pavements sparkling with hoarfrost, bone-chilling winds driving in straight from the Russian steppes.

Shivering in my woollen bathrobe as I got ready for bed, I sat in front of the dressing-table mirror. I'd spent the last week hunched over my desk, all day, every day, putting together pictures and text, ready for tomorrow's meeting, my only exercise the removal of the cork from a bottle of red and the subsequent lifting of a glass to my lips. Probably bad for me, but I was careful not to overdo it, and it helped to keep some of my chronic sadness temporarily at bay. Now, pitilessly examining my grey-faced reflection, as one does, especially if one is on the wrong side of thirty (oh, all right then, thirty-three), I catalogued my assets. No double chin, so far. Rather glamorous red hair, but usually pulled severely back from my face so it wouldn't get in my eyes. Good cheekbones. Not too many crows' feet around the eyes. Not too much flab on the hips. Breasts ... well, not exactly pert, but then they never had been. I was in good shape, though I knew I ought to go to the gym more often.

But would lifting a few more weights, spending fifteen minutes on the running machine instead of ten, swimming sixty lengths of the pool instead of fifty – would that seriously make any difference to my weight or shape?

I thought not. I was already pretty fit – I kept myself in good nick by jogging. Perhaps I was having a bad day, but something in me rebelled as I stared out at the whipping clouds and the dreary grey sea. Okay, so most of my body parts were moving inexorably southwards or sideways, but I decided that I could not bear the thought of spending even one more minute at the gym. Not today. Not ever. The smell of the changing room, the damp trainers and damper towels, the ghastly cosiness of the other women and their feminine chat about children, menfolk, periods. If there's one thing I do not want to discuss or hear about, it's other women's periods, thank you; I have enough problems coping with my own. And I hated the way they didn't really mean their grumbles about their husbands, secure because at least they had one, their smug alliance as they slagged off their menfolk – He still hasn't worked out how to switch on the washing machine, like I was born with an instruction manual in my mouth! Send him to the shops and he'll always come back with the wrong item! He never leaves the seat down after he's peed, however many times I ask him to! Choruses of Yes, yes, typical, men, tell me about it! – and only me wondering aloud if they would leave the seat up for him if he asked them to. Cue hostile stares, as though I'd suddenly revealed that my (un-pert) breasts had turned gangrenous and were about to leak all over their leotards.

The Maiden Aunt, I thought suddenly. I stared once more into the mirror. Even though neither of my siblings had so far enlarged the gene pool, I was in danger of becoming a Maiden Aunt. Put me in a gingham apron, hand me a pitchfork, and I could picture myself clearly: Mrs American Gothic, severe face, lips set in permanent disapproval. I needed to laugh again. I needed a man in more ways than one. I needed a fuck.

My mobile buzzed. 'Quick here,' I said.

'Alex, darling.' It was Dr Helena Drummond, my collaborator. My friend. And, in several ways, my saviour.

'Hi, Helena.' I couldn't help smiling. It was the effect she always had on me.

'I'm just touching base, because I'm actually on my way out the door, or at least standing at it, waiting for my lift. So what time are we supposed to meet this guy?'

'I've already told you three times. Ten thirty. In the morning. Tomorrow.' I spoke slowly and clearly, as though she was not only mentally challenged, but also deaf. Neither of which was remotely true.

'I hope to God this publisher person keeps his place warm, because if not, I'm staying wrapped up at home.'

'No you're not. In any case, you'll never know how high he keeps the heating unless you show up there, will you? And I'm telling you, if you're late, I shall have to start the meeting without you. And. You. Will. PAY! We cannot afford to risk giving the impression that we don't care. That we are anything but professional and on the ball.'

'Oh, God.' Helena groaned. 'It's so cold.'

'Are you listening to me, dammit?'

'Yes. But can't we postpone it?'

'No,' I said firmly. 'Because first of all, I set this up weeks ago, second of all, Cliff Nichols is expecting us, and third, and most important of all, he is almost certainly going to commission us. So tomorrow we are going to work. Work, Helena. If you know what that means.'

'Darling, so severe! Chee-rist, look at the time.'

'Where are you off to?'

'I'm going to a concert in the cathedral, and then having dinner with some friends, including the owner of that antiques shop just off the High Street, the one who has antiquarian books as well as mahogany breakfronts. He's one of our fans and always keen as mustard to talk us up to his customers. I don't know how many copies he's sold for us so far, so I have to be nice even though he's a frightful old grump. At least he hasn't tried to get me into bed.'

'Not yet,' I said. 'Don't get pissed, will you?'

'Pissed? Moi?'

'You need to be on full alert tomorrow. Have fun.' Pointless advice: Helena always had fun. I suppressed a sigh. I liked my own company, which was just as well, but sometimes I wished I had a more vivid social life.

'You know me, darling, don't I usually? Anyway, back late tonight – unless I get lucky – sleep like a baby and up betimes to drive – oh Gawd, do I really have to? – all the way to Billingsgate House or whatever it's called.'

'Barnsfield.'

'I suppose I'd better get my stuff for tomorrow sorted before I go to bed.'

'Excellent idea.' Although Helena often appeared scatter-brained and out of it, in fact she was usually pretty well organized. As someone on the part-time teaching staff of three different universities, she had to be. 'And don't forget to bring your portfolio with you.'

'It's already in the car, Bossy Lady. I'll be setting off around eight-thirty tomorrow, to leave myself plenty of time, given the latest weather forecast. Snow, groan. Sleet and frost, double groan. But I ought to reach the place just about on time, unless the traffic's bad. So fingers crossed and see ya tomorrow, babe.'

'Right. And don't be late.'

'I won't be – unless I'm kidnapped or something.'

'Any possibility that you might be?' I stared again at my reflection, wishing I could be more like Helena. More carefree. More insouciant.

'Well, I've told you I'm being stalked, haven't I?'

'Several times.' I had never taken her seriously. Not after the time I had digested with horror the dramatic news that Helena had stomach cancer, only to be airily informed later that it was just a mild attack of food poisoning after all.

Her tone changed. 'You think I'm joking or making it up, don't you?'

'Of course I don't,' I lied.

'Well, I'm not. I've seen him standing outside in the dark, watching the house, trying to spook me. But what if,' Helena said, 'tonight's the night he decides to get proactive?'

'Tell him to come back the day after tomorrow.'

Afterwards, of course, my flippancy haunted me, filled me with guilt of the worst kind. If I'd taken her seriously, if I'd only listened, asked more questions, how differently things might have turned out. But to what was likely to prove my eternal regret, I had not.

The following morning, I looked out at the rime-frosted communal lawn in front of my second-floor flat, each grass blade edged with ice, at the hard-packed soil of the flower-beds, dead leaves hanging brown and lifeless from withered stalks whipping to and fro in the raw breeze. Beyond the garden wall was the promenade, and then the stony beach. Beyond that, the sea churned restlessly, bleak and drab, waves crashing occasionally against the shingle, throwing up high curtains of white spray.

Mrs Gardiner, from one of the ground-floor flats, was walking along the seafront, bent forwards against the buffeting wind, her whole posture indicating cold and discomfort. Her three hairless dogs skittered along beside her, their little paws click-clacking gingerly across the frosty tarmac. Each one was wearing a grey tweed coat edged with red or holly-green, already anticipating Christmas. At Easter, their coats would be bordered with yellow and lime.

Even inside the flat, with the central heating cranked up, I felt cold. I groaned at the thought of having to go out into the freezing air, get my car started, then set out on roads that the weather forecast had already warned would be treacherous. But business was business ... Yet again I checked the papers lying on my bed, including the roughs for two further picture-and-text compilations, then placed them carefully into my leather briefcase, a gift from my sister.

I had gasped with pleasure when she gave it to me. 'It's beautiful!' I said, stroking the satiny leather.

'I know. Now that you've set up your own company, you need to look like a professional,' Meghan said. 'First impressions are one of the most important parts of your pitch, if not the most important. Leo says that if a would-be client can't be bothered to create a good impact right from the get-go, then what else won't he bother about? In other words, he's probably not someone we want to work with.'

Meghan and her husband lived in Florence and ran a small and very exclusive leather-goods company, which supplied Harrods and Fortnums and, behind the scenes, Mulberry. They had recently secured contracts with Bloomingdales and Saks in New York.

Perhaps I should add that Meghan is not her real name, any more than mine is Alexandra. Thanks to the proud heritage handed down from my ancestor, Elaward de Cuik, generations of Cuiks had given their children ludicrous Anglo-Saxon names. When I was ten, my sister had called a council of war for the three of us. 'I absolutely refuse to be called Ethelburgha for a single nother second,' she'd stated. 'They've started calling me Cheeseburger at school. It's the last straw.'

'I rather like being Hereward,' said my brother.

'Well, I hate Frideswide,' I said. 'What a terrible name.'

'Loaded with history,' my brother pointed out.

'This is what I'm going to do.' My sister spoke loudly. 'I'm going to tell them twice – because they won't listen the first time – that from now on my name is Meghan, and I won't answer to any other name. What about you?' she said to me.

'Alexandra,' I said promptly. 'That's what I'm going to be called. There's all sorts of famous people called that. Athletes and princesses and stuff.'

Now, I glanced at the clock on top of the bookcase. Cripes! I would be running late if I didn't leave in the next fifteen minutes. And I wasn't even dressed! I rushed into the navy-blue business suit I'd retained from my Detective Inspector days, the white silk blouse, the navy tights. I clasped the pearls my parents had given me when I turned twenty-one round my neck, stuck matching studs in my ears, and ran down the stairs. Power dressing. Equipped for battle.

Before I left the house I telephoned Helena again. I could just imagine her swearing loudly as she hopped about her bedroom, trying to get into a pair of tangerine-orange or peacock-blue tights, dragging a brightly patterned dress over her head, shrugging into a quilted satin jacket covered in stars, flinging a multi-coloured scarf round her neck, shoving her feet into cabbage-green ankle boots in need of a good clean. That was if she had even bothered to get out of bed.

There was no answer. She must be on time for once; must, indeed, already have set out. Good. The coming meeting was of particular importance.

Driving carefully over treacherous roads, I reviewed the steps which had brought me to this point. At university, I had joined various leftist groups and come out after my three years with a reasonable degree and, although not a liberal idealist, a vague desire to do good in some form or another. Someone had mentioned the police, which seemed to tick all the right boxes. Do you have the ambition, determination and vision to accelerate into the senior ranks of the police service? the literature had asked, and, feeling that I did, in spades, I joined the force on a fast-track programme, rising rapidly through the hierarchy to become, after six years, one of the youngest Detective Inspectors in the country. I discovered from practical experience how to run a team, how to keep it together, when to chivvy, when to sweet-talk, when to praise and when to admonish. Although it was supposed to have been wiped out, there was still plenty of lingering misogyny in the police force, but I was lucky enough not to experience anything worse than the odd sexist remark or the occasional show of resentment from some disgruntled junior officer who felt it was inappropriate to be taking orders from a woman. I ignored the Playboy images of spread female legs placed centrally on my desk, countering them by pinning up raunchy shots from gay magazines, not giving a toss if that brought me down to their level. If you can't beat 'em, join 'em. The minor harassment stopped soon after that.

Above all, I learned to observe, whether it was picking up tensions between the members of my team, or an overlooked detail at a scene of crime. I also learned that not every officer is equally dedicated to truth, justice and the rooting out of evil. But all my hopes and ambitions, my dedication to the job, and, yes, my real ability, came to an end when I got married.

I had fallen in love with Jack Martin, a colleague as aspirational as I was myself, and for nearly three years I had been completely happy. I had truly loved him. Like W.H. Auden, I thought that love would last forever, and like him, I was wrong. Two life-changing events occurred. Firstly, I found myself pregnant. Secondly, I discovered that Jack was having an affair – had, in fact, been involved with the same woman since very shortly after our wedding. I had confronted him, saying it was either his pregnant wife or his mistress, and had been both humiliated and completely heartbroken when he'd chosen the mistress, adding that in any case, he wasn't ready yet to be a father, couldn't guarantee that he ever would be. I wondered how I could have once been so deluded as to believe that the sun shone out of his backside.

There was still the baby. Determined not to display my mortification at being rejected, I resigned from the force, hating the possibility of running into Jack the Love Rat, Jack the Shit, almost as much as I hated leaving a job I cared passionately about and wanted to go on doing until I retired. And then a month after Jack had moved in with his lover, a beautician with her own salon, I woke in the night, my back aching, dull cramps in my stomach which gradually morphed into a severe abdominal pain. I had been experiencing discomfort, especially in the lower back, for the past three or four weeks, for which my GP had prescribed a mild painkiller. So that night, I took two tablets and went back – eventually – to sleep. I woke to find my bed drenched with what I at first took to be perspiration but – on pushing back the covers – saw, with horror, was blood. I knew at once what it was. I called the hospital and an ambulance was sent immediately. They took every possible care but they couldn't save the baby. They told me he was a boy. I was completely crushed. Emotionally broken.

So there I was, in my late twenties, unemployed, unmarried and childless. And very unhappy. The maisonette flat I had once shared with Jack and from which I could not afford to move (at least I had been able to keep it as part of the divorce settlement) was almost too strong a reminder of happier times. I changed. I grew a cynical carapace over my vulnerable heart, determined that I would never again be hurt the way Jack had hurt me. My friends and family wondered aloud where the real Alex had gone. I shrugged. Murdered, was the answer. Dead and buried. Burned in the ashes of a faithless love.