into the DC’s car, parked at the kerb. ‘No need to take it personally.’ She turned once more. ‘Are you going to be all right,’ she asked, ‘my boys?’ This was the first time Jacquie had gone away from Columbine since they’d brought Nolan home. It was just one of those tiny, sad little milestones in a mother’s life; there’d be more, she knew.
‘We’ll cope,’ Maxwell stroked her cheek. ‘You ring the girls, Nole,’ he called up the stairs. ‘I’ll get the champers on ice.’
He’d wanted to get the boy downstairs for the fondfarewell, but the little chap had been up since four and was now spark out dreaming of a white Christmas or whatever it was almost one-year-olds dream about. Had they done any research on that?
Benny Palister put the plastic to the metal and they were gone, snarling out of Columbine and making for the Flyover and all points East.
‘Bloody peculiar, isn’t it, sarge?’
‘What’s that, Constable?’ She did the girlie thing for a moment and checked her make-up in the mirror. This was marginally safer than when she usually did it, driving.
‘Songs,’ Benny said. ‘Some of them, for no reason, you just can’t get out of your head.’
‘Oh, yes,’ she remembered. ‘How was the wedding?’
‘Oh, that.’ The lad’s face fell. ‘Bloody awful, thanks. Remind me never to go through it myself.’
‘Wait ’til you’re asked,’ she told him.
‘No, it wasn’t the wedding,’ he said, crunching through the gears on his way to the A259. ‘It’s a track on the radio. I keep hearing it and it sort of sums up this case – the man at the Point.’
‘Really?’ she asked. ‘What is it?’
‘It’s called
Whale on the Beach
by Danny Goodburn.’
Jacquie shrugged. ‘Don’t know it.’
‘Oh, you will,’ Benny said. ‘Goodburn’s going places. Got a band called The Denvers. No, it’s just the lyrics…’ He broke into song – ‘“What would you do if you found a whale, a whale on a beach, gasping for air. What would you do, would you something, something, a whale on the beach, thatshouldn’t be there. How would it know that it moved you…something. The whale on the beach with nobody there. The look in its eye to the la, la, la, la, la, just out of reach in the dark down there. A whale on a beach, gasping for air. A whale on the beach, gasping for air.” What was he doing there? The man at the Point?’
Jacquie resisted the obvious answer – ‘quietly rotting’. It wasn’t worthy of her and anyway, Benny Palister was a curious mixture of Goldilocks and Don Quixote. And Jacquie Carpenter knew all about Don Quixote – she was living with him and had recently given birth to his son.
‘That’s the sixty-four thousand dollar question,’ she conceded. ‘I didn’t know you could sing – presumably, Mr Goodburn actually can?’ She flicked a coin out of her handbag, tossing it expertly in the air. ‘Heads or tails?’
‘Er…tails,’ he opted.
‘Bad luck, it’s heads.’ The coin was already back in her bag. ‘Divide and conquer, Benny, my boy. I’ll do the shirts. You do the teeth.’
Jacquie wasn’t really shopping. True, Lord Everard was only three doors down from Hell’s Kitchen, her favourite shop in the world, but, as she told Benny Palister all the way back along the coast road, she honestly hadn’t known that when they set out. As it was, an all-singing, all-dancing Moulinex just happened to land in her shopping basket, which she felt obliged to buy pending her next pay rise or when Hell froze over, whichever was the sooner. As for her enquiries, they hadn’t been too helpful, but then, neither she nor Henry Hall thought they would be. The dead man’s shirt was beginning todecompose, hanging around the purple-blue of his body, but it had definitely been a bright orange when new. Lord Everard’s Assistant Under-Manager (Weekends) thought they’d stopped that particular line about eighteen months before. It was part
‘We’ll cope,’ Maxwell stroked her cheek. ‘You ring the girls, Nole,’ he called up the stairs. ‘I’ll get the champers on ice.’
He’d wanted to get the boy downstairs for the fondfarewell, but the little chap had been up since four and was now spark out dreaming of a white Christmas or whatever it was almost one-year-olds dream about. Had they done any research on that?
Benny Palister put the plastic to the metal and they were gone, snarling out of Columbine and making for the Flyover and all points East.
‘Bloody peculiar, isn’t it, sarge?’
‘What’s that, Constable?’ She did the girlie thing for a moment and checked her make-up in the mirror. This was marginally safer than when she usually did it, driving.
‘Songs,’ Benny said. ‘Some of them, for no reason, you just can’t get out of your head.’
‘Oh, yes,’ she remembered. ‘How was the wedding?’
‘Oh, that.’ The lad’s face fell. ‘Bloody awful, thanks. Remind me never to go through it myself.’
‘Wait ’til you’re asked,’ she told him.
‘No, it wasn’t the wedding,’ he said, crunching through the gears on his way to the A259. ‘It’s a track on the radio. I keep hearing it and it sort of sums up this case – the man at the Point.’
‘Really?’ she asked. ‘What is it?’
‘It’s called
Whale on the Beach
by Danny Goodburn.’
Jacquie shrugged. ‘Don’t know it.’
‘Oh, you will,’ Benny said. ‘Goodburn’s going places. Got a band called The Denvers. No, it’s just the lyrics…’ He broke into song – ‘“What would you do if you found a whale, a whale on a beach, gasping for air. What would you do, would you something, something, a whale on the beach, thatshouldn’t be there. How would it know that it moved you…something. The whale on the beach with nobody there. The look in its eye to the la, la, la, la, la, just out of reach in the dark down there. A whale on a beach, gasping for air. A whale on the beach, gasping for air.” What was he doing there? The man at the Point?’
Jacquie resisted the obvious answer – ‘quietly rotting’. It wasn’t worthy of her and anyway, Benny Palister was a curious mixture of Goldilocks and Don Quixote. And Jacquie Carpenter knew all about Don Quixote – she was living with him and had recently given birth to his son.
‘That’s the sixty-four thousand dollar question,’ she conceded. ‘I didn’t know you could sing – presumably, Mr Goodburn actually can?’ She flicked a coin out of her handbag, tossing it expertly in the air. ‘Heads or tails?’
‘Er…tails,’ he opted.
‘Bad luck, it’s heads.’ The coin was already back in her bag. ‘Divide and conquer, Benny, my boy. I’ll do the shirts. You do the teeth.’
Jacquie wasn’t really shopping. True, Lord Everard was only three doors down from Hell’s Kitchen, her favourite shop in the world, but, as she told Benny Palister all the way back along the coast road, she honestly hadn’t known that when they set out. As it was, an all-singing, all-dancing Moulinex just happened to land in her shopping basket, which she felt obliged to buy pending her next pay rise or when Hell froze over, whichever was the sooner. As for her enquiries, they hadn’t been too helpful, but then, neither she nor Henry Hall thought they would be. The dead man’s shirt was beginning todecompose, hanging around the purple-blue of his body, but it had definitely been a bright orange when new. Lord Everard’s Assistant Under-Manager (Weekends) thought they’d stopped that particular line about eighteen months before. It was part
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