Chapter 1
KELLY’S EYE
“We’re not Starsky and Hutch. Would you please slow down!”
Jason gritted his teeth. His mother-in-law was a notorious backseat driver. Too fast, too slow, too close to the curb, watch out for that cyclist, wasn’t that the turning there, are we there yet? She had mentioned them all. It should have been a scenic drive through the lakes to the peaceful town of Penrith – not the Cannonball Run.
His grip on the steering wheel tightened. “I’m going at the limit, Amita,” he said, trying to keep his voice light.
“I don’t care what that thing says, you’re going too fast,” she fired back. “I’d like to be able to see my grandchildren at least once more, if that’s alright with you? Which reminds me, do you drive like a maniac with them in the car and I’m not here? Does your wife know about your lead foot?”
“I know where I’d like to put my lead foot,” he muttered.
“What?”
“Nothing,” he sighed.
Silence descended in the car. Jason had been spending a lot of time with his mother-in-law recently. And it wasn’t through choice. It wasn’t that he disliked her – Amita Khatri could be very warm and generous when she chose to be. It was when she chose not to be that he had a problem. With everything that had been going on, he had enough problems to worry about.
“Bugger, did I bring my glasses?” she said, reaching for her handbag.
“They’re on your head,” said Jason, concentrating on the road.
“So they are,” she tutted. “Rats, have I brought my pen?”
“Front pocket of your bag.”
“Yes, so it is,” she said, finding her bingo blotter. “Now I can’t remember if I have the money to pay Georgie for that magazine subscription –”
“You’ve rolled up a tenner and put it in the pocket of your cardigan.”
Amita patted her tummy where the pocket was. She cocked an eyebrow at Jason.
“Anyone would think you were spying on me.”
He thought about answering her back. He thought about saying how she’d spent the last hour before leaving the house going through a very vocal checklist, as if she was packing for an attempt on Everest rather than an evening with Penrith Bingo Club. He thought about telling her that he’d missed most of the news and all of the weather because of the racket she’d been making. Jason thought about lots of things before deciding it wasn’t worth the argument.
“Just looking out for my favourite mother-in-law,” he said with a forced chirpiness.
“And if I believe that, I’ll believe anything,” she snorted, a hint of a smile behind her frown.
Jason smiled. He let his grip on the wheel loosen and reached down to the radio.
“You’re not putting that on, are you?” asked Amita. “I can’t listen to anything before the bingo,” she said sharply. “It’s one of my superstitions. You know this, Jason. You know that I’ve got to be absolutely in the zone, completely focussed, ready to pounce when those balls come out of the machine.”
“Isn’t it all electronic now?” he asked. “Don’t they have a big screen with a random number generator doing all the hard work?”
“You don’t know what it takes to play the numbers,” she said. “No radio.”
To make sure he had understood, she slapped his hand. He gritted his teeth.
“Fine,” he huffed, adjusting himself. “But I want it put on the record that I think you take this bingo far too seriously. It’s not the World Cup, you know. It’s a load of old folk gathered in a church hall, gossiping about the neighbours.”
“How dare you,” Amita gasped. “We do not gossip. We’re there to win.”
“Oh, come off it, Amita,” he laughed. “You go in there, every week, and talk about everyone who hasn’t turned up for half an hour. You play a bit, then you stop for free tea and a Digestive biscuit before kicking off the second half for a right proper bitching session. The clock strikes nine and you all shuffle back out, ready to gather up as much gossip as you can in the week. Cutthroat competition is not the name of the game.”
“It is more competitive than you’ll ever know,” Amita huffed. “Just last week Margaret Cullin won fifty pounds on a full house.”
“I’m sure the Financial Times was relieved to get a front page that night.”
“And then there was last month, when Madeleine Frobisher went home with the rollover jackpot.”
“How much was that then?” asked Jason.
“Seventy-five pounds and forty-six new pence.”
Jason rolled his eyes. “The excitement never stops,” he said. “Look, I never said you didn’t play any bingo. Obviously you do. All I am saying is that you spend an awful lot of time talking about people behind their backs. Is that or is that not the case?”
Amita considered her words carefully. She chewed them over, thinking about the accusations levelled at her. She always did when Jason was the one pointing the finger. She hated to give him an inch. He always took the mile and then some.
“No comment,” she finally said.
That made Jason laugh. “No comment?” he said. “No comment? What’s that supposed to mean?”
“It means no comment, that’s what it means. You’re supposed to be a journalist Jason, you should know what ‘no comment’ means by now.”
“I am a journalist,” he fired back.
“Oh yes, sorry, I had forgotten,” Amita folded her arms. “I’d forgotten that watching daytime television in your pyjamas and the latest from the frontline of vacuuming the stairs were cutting-edge reporting these days. How silly of me.”
There was a noticeable chill to the air between them now. While Jason knew he’d probably gone too far with his criticism of the bingo club, he thought she was being more than cruel now.
The Musgrave Monument in Market Square loomed through the darkness. Jason felt its clock face was watching him as they drove beneath its glare, almost egging him on to say something. The nineteenth century tower was the focal point of the town; every road seemed to lead to it in the end. If Penrith had a skyline, the Monument’s pyramidal peak and bunting would be the highlight.
“No need to kick a man when he’s down,” he said, his voice like muted thunder. “I’m out of work, you know.”
“I know it all too well, Jason,” said Amita in that snippy, condescending manner he hated with a vengeance. “I know that, while my daughter is out breaking her back to keep your family afloat, you’re messing around on that computer of yours, playing games and watching football highlights.”
“I’m trying to find a new job,” he said, teeth clamping together, jaw tight. “I was made redundant, Amita, you know this. I’m trying my hardest to get another reporter gig, but it’s a very tough market.”
“I’ve told you a million times, Jason,” she sniffed. “You should go freelance and make your own work.”
Jason had heard this all before – from Amita, from his family, from everyone who cared to have an opinion. The only thing worse than being out of work was being told how to get another job. It made his blood boil.
He was about to launch into a furious tirade when Amita screamed.
“Look out!” she yelled, slamming her hands onto the dashboard.
Jason panicked. He fumbled with the steering wheel as the headlights flashed across the street. A gathered pack of anoraks, corduroy trousers and sensible walking shoes appeared then vanished into the darkness as he wrestled the car out of the way. He slammed on the brakes and they came to a halt – no harm done.
“Bloody hell,” he breathed. “They came out of nowhere.”
“You weren’t concentrating,” said Amita, unclipping her seatbelt. “And you were going too fast, like I said!”
He started to plead his case but she was gone, out of the car door, before he got the chance. He caught his breath, pinching the bridge of his nose.
“The Sheriff of Penrith is off to greet her citizens,” he said to himself.
But just then he noticed Amita had left her handbag. She was not a woman usually parted from her weapon of choice, and he thought he’d better deliver it to her before he got accused of rifling through its mysterious contents.
Mustering the energy, he got out of the car, stopping first to make sure he definitely hadn’t run over any lagging members of the bingo club. The chilly autumn air made his face tingle and woke him up a little. He felt guilty for being so snippy with Amita – she’d hit a sore spot when it came to work. He had little to show for an afternoon of emails and job-hunting. He’d make it up to her with her bag by way of a peace offering.
The gathered group was making quite a noise outside the church hall. Even in the dim light of the evening he could make out Amita at the centre of the action. Something was clearly up.
He pressed the button to lock the car, and it bleeped with a satisfactory chirp as he walked casually over to the assembled gang of elderly Penrith locals.
“What’s going on then?” he asked Amita, but before she could answer, a tall, broad-chested old man spoke to him without looking away from the centre of the crowd where Amita was holding court with another well-dressed septuagenarian, both of them vying for supremacy.
“Madeleine’s dead,” he said bluntly. “Broke her neck.”
“Madeleine who?” asked Jason.
“Frobisher,” said the old man.
“Is that her that won the monthly jackpot?” asked Jason.
“Aye,” said the old man, his moustache twitching as he sneered at him. “That’s her.”
“Guess she didn’t have time to spend it then, eh?” Jason elbowed the pensioner in the ribs, egging him on for a laugh.
The crowd fell silent. Suddenly every pair of bespectacled or laser-surgically-enhanced eyes was on Jason. He could almost taste the contempt hanging in the air as he tried to back away. But Amita pushed her way out to the edge from the centre of the group, grabbed her bag, and locked eyes with him.
“And you are going to write the story?’ she said in a voice that Jason knew would lead to trouble.
