Death Actually Page 13

  “It’s tap, but it’ll be OK,” said Maggie.

  Helen looked up and took a sip, then sighed loudly. “It’s just so hard, Sarah, but I suppose I must be brave.” She looked at Maggie. “We want to know what happened. Don’t leave anything out.”

  Maggie did her best to tell them everything. However, she saw no need to mention Lucy. Neither woman cried, but Sarah did reach out and put a comforting hand on Helen’s arm again. Thankfully neither asked who Mark was with when he died, though Sarah looked genuinely surprised when Maggie talked about Ben.

  “So he is here,” she said.

  “You don’t have to see him, Sarah. Remember, we talked about this,” said Helen quickly. “I suppose we might as well go over everything now, Maggie. I can’t see the point of getting settled at the hotel and then traipsing back here. And then I suppose I’d better see him. It’ll be good to get it over and done with in one fell swoop.”

  “Are you sure, Helen dear?” asked Sarah gently. “You don’t have to, you know. We can always come back tomorrow, can’t we Maggie?”

  Maggie nodded.

  “No, let’s get it over. Then we can have a drink when we get to the hotel. I need a gin. The whole thing has been horrible. Answering the door to that policeman who looked barely older than my son. Thank God you were there, Sarah. Anyway, I’ve been told my poor husband has to have a post mortem. He would have hated that, wouldn’t he Sarah?”

  “Yes dear, I’m sure.”

  Helen looked up at her friend to make sure she was truly sympathetic.

  Sarah reached over and squeezed Helen’s arm again. “He will be missed, sorely missed. A great man and a wonderful husband and father,” she said soothingly.

  The Helen and Sarah act was starting to annoy Maggie. “Unfortunately we can’t do a PM here in Queenstown,” she said. “It has to be done in Dunedin, and then the coroner has to be satisfied that everything is in order. Once that happens you can take him home.”

  A flash of annoyance crossed Helen’s face before she quickly resumed the role of the grieving widow. “We want to take him back to Auckland tomorrow. This ruins everything. There must be a way around it. Sarah, what was the name of that nice judge we met last week? A judge trumps a coroner, surely. If I called him, I’m sure he’d sort it out.”

  Maggie bit her tongue. It was the only way she knew to stop herself from saying something she shouldn’t, but it didn’t always work. This time she kept biting, while counting slowly to ten. When she stopped her tongue hurt and she could taste blood.

  “I’m sorry but there’s no way around the law. Even the Governor General herself couldn’t trump a coroner, as you put it. With your permission I was going to take him through to Dunedin tomorrow. You could follow in your car. I’ve spoken to the pathologist, and he thinks he can speed things up at his end for you. If everything is straightforward you could take him back to Auckland the day after that. He told me to tell you he’ll move things along as a personal favour to an esteemed colleague.”

  Helen cheered up a little at this hint of special treatment. “That could work, couldn’t it?” she asked Sarah.

  Sarah nodded.

  “Settled,” said Helen. “I suppose I’d better see him now. The sooner we get to the hotel the better. What time do we meet you here in the morning?”

  Maggie suggested a nine o’clock start, at which they both gasped until Sarah said, “Needs must, old girl. We can do it.”

  When Helen saw her husband’s body, she was calm, almost aloof. Sarah, whom she insisted came with her, told her repeatedly how brave she was. It was Sarah, though, who reached out to touch one of Mark’s hands and who quickly recoiled at the coolness.

  Having done her duty, Helen indicated to Maggie she had had enough and walked back to the office. She chose a simple functional casket for her husband, before tidying the paperwork away into her handbag and thanking Maggie for her help. Rarely had Maggie seen a widow so composed. It made her own job much easier, not to mention quicker. Having to counsel a distraught widow took time and was not easy, but it was part of the job. Helen’s absence of emotion was unnerving.

  As they were leaving, Helen asked, “You might not know this, but would we have to book to get a table at Elka’s tonight? We’ve been looking forward to dinner there after one of our friends told us it’s the best restaurant in Queenstown. Sarah and I thought we deserved a treat after this hellish day, and all this …” She waved her hands back towards where Mark was still lying on the stretcher.

  Maggie found the bitten hollow in her tongue and made it deeper. “My daughter is the chef, while Elka is away, so I’m sure if I phoned her and explained, she would organise a table for you.”

  “Oh, how marvellous,” said Helen, enlivened by another favour conferred. Her eyes sparkling, she turned to Sarah. “I told you Maggie was special, didn’t I? You were so efficient when we spoke, I knew straight away I could depend on you. I’ll tell all my friends what a wonderful undertaker you are.”

  Closing the door behind them, Maggie muttered between clenched teeth, “Funeral director. ”

  Chapter Twenty-three

  “Mum, are you awake?”

  Maggie opened one eye. It was dark and she was lying, still dressed, on the sofa in the living room in front of the burnt-out fire. Kate was bending over her, hand on her shoulder, shaking her gently back to consciousness.

  Shivering, Maggie sat up and pulled a mohair rug around her shoulders. Kate reached past her and turned on the lamp. Maggie licked her teeth, trying to get rid of that dry furry feeling which comes from falling asleep in an awkward position with your mouth wide open. Dribble was still wet on her chin.

  “What time is it?” she asked. Reaching up to sweep her hair back, she found a post-it note stuck to her forehead. It seemed Nick had decided to let her sleep when he’d tip toed past earlier in the evening. Instead of waiting to tell her again to remember to visit Lizzie, he had scrawled Lizzie on a note and thoughtfully stuck it to his mother’s forehead.

  “Just after eleven,” said Kate in a loud whisper from the kitchen. “I’m making herb tea. Would you like some?”

  “Camomile would be lovely.” Maggie stretched up, feeling life flow back into her stiff body. “I’m so tired,” she said. “These past two days have been full-on.” She yawned. “Tell me, how did it go tonight? Your debut.”

  Kate put the cups on the table and sat down. “Good,” she said. “It was a full house and we took over eight thousand dollars, which isn’t bad for a week night, but–”

  “Well done. What do you mean, ‘but’?”

  Kate took a deep breath. “Those women you sent, Mum. They were a nightmare. They were awful. In London we used to call that sort ‘sophisticated savages’.”

  “I’m sure they can’t have been the women I called you about. One has just lost her husband.”

  “Precisely,” said Kate. “I told the maître d’ about Helen’s husband as soon as they arrived, just before they ordered their first cocktails – and then their second and third. For a while it seemed to be going well. They’d decided to see Mark off in style and they certainly knew their wines. I checked, and between the two of them they polished off one bottle of Cristal and a bottle of Pyramid Valley Angel Flower pinot noir – after the cocktails. I could have served them steak and chips, because the food meant nothing after that much alcohol. They managed to hold it together until the end of the evening, and thank goodness most of the other diners had left early because that’s when the fun really started.”

  Maggie shook her head. “They were such ladies when they were here this afternoon. I don’t believe it.”

  “A lady,” said Kate, “does not think it highly amusing to jump out at other guests from the coat cupboard, before running the length of the restaurant with her hands over her mouth hoping she’ll make it to the loo in time to be sick. And she didn’t. Make it. Helen must have thrown up more than four-hundred dollars’ worth of champagne and pinot noir. Lucky it
only hit the door of the loo and not another guest, but the smell was atrocious. And then she went in and wouldn’t come out. All we could hear was more vomiting and lots of loud crying. Not a bad way to empty a restaurant. And don’t look at me like that; it wasn’t funny. Eventually she emerged, only to sob her heart out on the wine waiter’s chest, telling all and sundry how Mark, her husband, had been planning to leave her for some ‘anaesthetist bimbo’.”

  “Did she really say ‘anaesthetist bimbo’?” asked Maggie, unable to hide her glee.

  “She did say that, yes. I told Brian not to give them the second bottle of pinot they wanted. He thought they’d been drinking even before they arrived. And I know we should have been monitoring them, but truly, Mum, they seemed fine until just after the mains went out. They changed in an instant. One minute we had two well-dressed women having dinner together, and the next minute, all hell had broken loose.

  “But wait, there’s more – that’s not the worst of it!” Kate said dramatically, enjoying the horrified look on Maggie’s face. “Around ten o’clock, just when we were trying to ease them out the door, who should call in on the off chance we could do a takeaway pizza, but Dr Goodman. You and Nick went skiing with him yesterday, didn’t you? He was there when Mark died? Anyway, he was at the counter talking to me when Sarah, who seemed less ‘tired and emotional’ than the widow, suddenly saw him and pitched herself across the floor and stood there, hands on hips, yelling. He was surprised, to say the least, and then I swear, he just looked terrified. I would have been too. She had so much hate in her eyes. We all felt sorry for him.”

  “This is her.” Kate got up, put her hands on her hips, and leant unsteadily forwards, swaying, as she imitated Sarah. “Ben Goodman, you rat. How dare you divorce me and come and live in this … backwater! No one does that to me and gets away with it. You think you’ve escaped. I’ve got a new lawyer and I’m coming after you!’”

  “Then Helen joined in. ‘Why didn’t you save my husband? He’s dead and I have to take his unfaithful body home to our children.’ I tell you, it was all on and now all directed at poor Ben.”

  Maggie listened in shocked amazement. She’d heard about tourists sometimes getting drunk and making fools of themselves in the cheaper pubs and clubs in Queenstown, but the idea that two middle-aged women from Auckland would get so trolleyed was breath-taking, especially as one of them was supposed to be a grieving widow. It wouldn’t be long before the story made the rounds. There was nothing the locals liked more than bad behaviour by city visitors. Elka definitely didn’t need to know. Her reputation was precious to her, and Maggie didn’t want her upset before the surgery.

  “Mum, focus,” said Kate. “There’s more. Poor Ben went white. Literally the colour drained from his face in front of me when they were yelling at him. He just stood and looked at his wife while she went on and on about how she was going to get her fair share of the Goodman millions by hook or by crook. I have to give it to that man. He was a total gentleman. As soon as she’d stopped raving at him, he said, ‘It’s lovely to see you again, Sarah. Helen, please accept my condolences for your loss.’ And then he left.”

  “It would’ve been fine if they’d left then, but now it was Sarah’s turn to burst into tears and lock herself in the loo. I left Brian to get them out, because I was so over them both. By the time we’d finished cleaning up the kitchen, they’d gone, thank goodness. I think Brian ordered a taxi to make sure they got back to their hotel without falling in the lake.”

  Kate yawned. “I am so tired. Come on Mum, it’s late.”

  As they walked upstairs, Kate turned to Maggie. “The next time you see Ben, be nice to him. He deserves some kind words after everything he must have been through, married to that woman. I’m going to bed. Give me the quiet of London nightlife after the hurly burly of Queenstown any day.”

  The next morning, Maggie’s phone rang at seven. It was the receptionist at Eichart’s Hotel, advising her that Mrs Holmes and Mrs Goodman would not be meeting her at nine o’clock after all, and she was to go on without them. If necessary, Mrs Holmes would meet her later that day in Dunedin.

  Chapter Twenty-four

  “Tim James.”

  “Tim James – the movie star.”

  “Possible Harm – those films. He’s that one.”

  “Oh, him. I thought he’d be taller.”

  “Nice bum.”

  Whispers swirled around Tim as he strode through Queenstown airport, his staff clearing a path through the crowds. He was wearing a BreakNeck baseball cap low down over his eyes, and this, combined with his trademark Aviators, hid most of the damage. His make-up artist had been able to cover the rest with plastic skin and concealer.

  Tim rarely used commercial planes. His own jet was parked away to one side of the runway, but this was such a short flight and it seemed unnecessary to go to the expense of activating his crew from their unpaid holiday in Queenstown. Buying fuel for an eighty-minute flight to Auckland when the local airline was reasonable and ready seemed such a waste of money.

  Smiling graciously and nodding to people around him, he caught sight of a little girl looking at him with huge eyes, nonplussed by all the fuss. Picking her up, he encouraged her mother to take a selfie of the three of them. It occurred to Tim he could’ve carried the girl off to Auckland without a maternal murmur of objection, if he’d so desired, such was the effect he was having. The girl’s father was less star-struck and reached across his wife to firmly extract his child from Tim’s arms.

  Just then Matt leaned in and whispered that the plane was waiting for him to board. The gathered crowd sighed as he waved and threw them a dazzling smile, before turning on his heels and jogging manfully out and across the tarmac to the plane. Another full arm wave and he was gone.

  Tim and his entourage occupied the first three rows on the plane. Used to travelling in his private jet, he was bemused by the flight safety instructions playing on the drop-down screens above him. Always the centre of attention, he mimicked the flight attendant standing at the front of the plane, taking delight in watching her trying not to laugh.

  Tim was still smiling after the plane had taken off and another attendant trundled her trolley down the aisle, stopping to ask if he would like tea, coffee or mineral water. He looked at the large pots of cooling tea and coffee and chose water. Unable to resist, the attendant showed him her phone, eyebrows raised in a silent question.

  Tim didn’t need to be asked twice. “Of course,” he said, taking off his glasses and turning to present his good side, and to hide the scar. The attendant put her head as close to his as she could and pressed the screen.

  Tim’s head ached where the cap dug into the stitches. He replaced his glasses, closed his eyes, leaned back and tried to get some sleep. As soon as he landed, a car would whisk him into Auckland and he would see the plastic surgeon. Once he and his insurance company were reassured that all was well, he intended to spend a few days relaxing in a discreet hotel, seeing what the city had to offer. Jimmy was sweating the small stuff, but he didn’t have to. Tim was going to enjoy this forced break in his schedule. It was a pity Jenny couldn’t join him, but he knew she’d never leave Isaac for such a short time, so there was no point in asking her to.

  Matt had suggested they could fit in some golf and deep sea fishing while he was there. Photos of him enjoying New Zealand’s outdoor lifestyle would boost his profile, and the Tourism Board was paying for the hotel, so he guessed he owed them something. There was also some big gala ball in a couple of days, at which Tim was to sit with the young female Prime Minister of the whole goddamned country. A local personality he’d seen on TV earlier that week had been contacted and invited to be his “date” for the night. Tim liked to be photographed with beautiful women, and he knew Jenny would understand. Matt would brief his date about the scar, and if she was as interested in her career as she had professed on the phone, she would say nothing.

  The flight droned on. The pilot informed th
em that the plane had just crossed Cook Strait and was heading up the west coast of the North Island, with views to Mount Taranaki on the left. Tim decided it was time for him to walk the length of the plane to the rear bathroom, where he’d stay for a few minutes (taking care to avoid contact with all surfaces) before walking slowly back, nodding and smiling modestly at everyone. A little public adoration was always good for his soul. Maybe he should do this more often, he thought, as phones snapped as he moved down the aisle.

  Having done his victory walk, Tim settled down to look at the photos of his son on the iPad Matt had handed him. The flight attendant collecting the rubbish melted when she saw the devoted father looking at photos of his baby.

  Another attendant’s voice came over the intercom, giving instructions in preparation for the descent into Auckland. She finished, “On behalf of Air New Zealand, thank you for choosing to fly with us today – especially you, Mr James.”

  The rest of the plane cheered and clapped when Tim raised his arm in acknowledgment. Two hundred smartphones took two hundred photos.

  Chapter Twenty-five

  Elka looked fantastic sitting up in bed in her sunny room at the hospital in Dunedin. At least that’s what Maggie told her. Armed with glossy magazines and an extravagant bunch of early spring flowers, she had cautiously opened the door to her friend’s room, ready for the worst. It had been a long operation – two to three hours longer than anticipated – and she expected to find Elka lying flat on her back hooked up to drips and monitors, with beeping noises punctuating the quiet and nurses hovering around her looking serious.

  Instead, Elka was looking at her laptop, ear buds in, laughing at whatever she was watching. There was only one drip, innocently and quietly going about its business; there were no beeps to be heard in a room empty of nurses. On the bedside table was a small machine with a syringe locked into a pump of some sort.