A Corpse Called Bob Read online

  Like a computer slowly booting up, my brain ran with questions. Why would he have taken one sock off? Where had his shoes got to? Would such details really help work out who killed him?

  I stopped myself before I could get carried away. My qualifications as a detective extended to one crime fiction module during my English degree and an impressive familiarity with Agatha Christie’s body of work. I doubted that it was enough to solve a real-life murder.

  Finally, an underling police officer came to collect me and led me through a security door to an unmarked room at the end of a long, featureless hallway. The new space was much less welcoming than the first. Grey plastic chairs, a sturdy rectangular table and blank, white walls without even the colourful lettering of public information posters made me instantly feel like I’d done something wrong.

  The next quarter of an hour before anyone came to grill me was tough. Were they leaving me in there to sweat? Perhaps they were observing me on some flickery, black and white monitor, studying the way I sat or the expression on my face, before settling on the perfect moment to make their entrance. It was lucky it only took them fifteen minutes. Any longer and I’d have caved under the pressure and confessed to killing my boss.

  “Miss Palmer?” the first detective to enter the room asked. I didn’t feel it required a response. “My name is Detective Inspector Victoria Irons and this,” she said, with the flair and timing of a stage magician, as her colleague entered the room, “is D.I. John Brabazon.”

  “It’s lovely to meet you,” I replied inappropriately.

  There was something very Playmobilish about the two of them. She had strangely simple features like they’d been drawn on with a marker and he had no neck. I half expected them to produce a notepad and pen which clicked in to their fingerless hands. They didn’t. The woman pulled a remote control from a drawer in the table, clicked it at an invisible recording device and the interview began.

  With the formalities out of the way, they sat in silence, sizing me up. I was swimming in a sea of police show clichés, waiting for the good cop, bad cop routine to start.

  “What exactly is it that you do in your job, Miss Palmer?” D.I. Irons asked.

  “I…” I’d got the first word out. Surely I could cope better than in my previous interviews. I was older now; a proper grown up. “I… I’m… I’m an assistant data analyst’s assistant. I studied literature and–”

  “How long have you been working there?”

  Deep breath. “A little over four years. It was never meant to be permanent but-”

  “Why don’t you take us through what happened this morning?”

  Dear Izzy, my brain said. No one cares about your dreams of becoming a famous poet. Just answer their questions.

  “I don’t know what to tell you.” I was beginning to calm down and had perfected the exact right tone to assure them of my innocence. “I got to work at about eight fifty-five, left my bag at my desk, turned my computer on and collected some papers to give to Bob.”

  “Robert Thomas, the deputy director of Porter & Porter?” Irons checked. Clearly D.I. Brabazon was a silent partner.

  “That’s right. My colleague Susan Hawkes saw me arrive.”

  “Very well. Go on.” Irons and her partner had matching expressions when they were listening. Brows furrowed, heads tipped forward. They were steely, and hard to read. Skills they’d no doubt honed through years on the job.

  “Bob… Mr. Thomas needed me to give him some work first thing. I knocked but there was no answer. The door to his office was ajar and I assumed he hadn’t arrived yet, so I went in. I was going to leave the work he wanted on his desk but then I saw him.”

  I took another deep breath and felt a bit sad again for poor, dead Bob.

  “What happened after you went inside?”

  “I saw the knife in his back. It wasn’t really a knife actually, it was a silver letter opener in the shape of a medieval sword. I remember him boasting about how much he’d paid for it and I thought it was ridiculous that anyone would waste a load of money on a letter opener when our hands come with ten of them built in. I mean, how hard is it to tear an envelope?”

  They didn’t smile.

  “Please continue, Miss Palmer.” I felt about six years old every time she spoke.

  “I wanted to check if he was dead, so I went closer. When I got to the desk I could see there must have been another wound. There was blood everywhere, it couldn’t all have come from the tiny hole in his back.” There was a flicker on D.I. Irons’ face. It gave me a little buzz and I probably got a bit cocky. “I’m right, aren’t I? There was another wound. I knew it!”

  “Miss Palmer.” She sounded like my GCSE history teacher.

  “Sorry, Miss. I mean… Well, I could see that there was no way he’d be getting back up. There was something already very rigid about him like a video set on pause. I leaned over his desk and then I–”

  All that confidence drained out of me as I pictured myself right up close to my boss’s dead body. I’d been holding it together surprisingly well until now. I mean, it’s not every day you implicate yourself in a murder. I hadn’t wildly blamed the whole thing on some random colleague. I hadn’t even fainted, which, knowing how I get in high-pressure situations, was pretty good going.

  “2917!” I blurted and then immediately followed it up with, “Sorry, just ignore that. It’s definitely not my pin number.”

  I felt like a teenager again, trying to get past the bouncers into a nightclub. Even though I’d been a foot taller than most girls my age, I always gave away how young I was through my nervous chattering as I spilled out my life story in the hope of sounding relaxed and natural. Worst of all though was that I hadn’t even done anything wrong. I was over eighteen now, with every right to enter a club and I hadn’t killed my boss. So why did I feel so jittery?

  Mr and Mrs Playmobil were still staring. Still waiting for my explanation.

  “I promise I didn’t kill him. I had plenty of reasons to and I’m sure that everyone in the office will have told you how much I hated him. Ramesh’s probably even mentioned the amazing impersonation I do. But I really didn’t kill him. I didn’t even help someone else do it, I promise.”

  Izzy, you’re blathering! Stop it this minute.

  “I might be an idiot but I’m not a killer. You have to believe me.”

  My old enemy silence gripped the room. I think that D.I. Victoria Irons might have suppressed a laugh, before finally taking pity on me.

  “We do.”

  I didn’t trust her. Perhaps this was the good-cop bit. Perhaps she was singing a lullaby before kicking the baby from the tree.

  “You do?”

  “Our initial investigation suggests that Mr Thomas was murdered between eight and ten last night. One of your colleagues has informed us that you were in a restaurant up in town.”

  “I was!”

  “Is there someone who can confirm your whereabouts?”

  “There is!” I couldn’t believe my luck. “I mean, I was hoping I’d never have to speak to him again and it really was the worst date I’ve ever been on – he took me to Burger Baron and asked me for my blood type – but Dean Shipman from Bromley is possibly my favourite person in the world right now.”

  “We’ll need his contact details.” D.I. Brabazon finally spoke up.

  “You said that you didn’t like Mr. Thomas,” his partner helpfully reminded me. “Was this a common feeling in the office?”

  “I know you’re not supposed to speak ill of the dead but Bob was a total git. He loved making fun of people, nothing we did was ever good enough for him and he made working at Porter & Porter pretty much unbearable. He really had it coming.”

  D.I. Brabazon frowned and pulled out a completely normal-looking notepad to scribble something down.

  “No, I don’t mean I wanted him dead. Please cross out whatever you just wrote. I’ve got a big mouth but I don’t even kill spiders. I get Mum to come into my room and
take them away.”

  “You live with your mother?” he asked, which made me feel even more stupid than when I was handing them evidence of my guilt.

  “Urrmm, yeah. But it’s just temporary, I–”

  “Miss Palmer, perhaps we can get back on topic.” It was D.I. Irons. She would have made a great headmistress. “You say he was unpopular. Was there anyone that Mr Thomas got on well with?”

  I took my time before answering. “He was friends with Will from consulting but I’ve no idea why. As far as I could tell, Will suffered his insults just as much as anyone.”

  Irons flicked through some papers on the table in front of her. “William Gibbons?”

  “That’s right.”

  “Thank you.” She underlined Will’s name on what I assumed was a Porter & Porter staff list. “And would you say that Mr Thomas had any enemies?”

  I was about to divulge a lengthy list of people who Bob had crossed, when I realised how terrible it would be to incriminate someone for murder because of petty office squabbling.

  “Isn’t it a bit unfair if I tell you? I mean, he was always screaming at someone. After the last project we worked on, he called me an uppity giraffe and said my mother should have strangled me as a child. No, D.I. Brabazon, don’t write that down!”

  “Anything you tell us will be used in confidence, Miss Palmer. No one’s going to be arrested on the back of office gossip.”

  I looked at the two of them as they waited for me to spill the news of who hated who and who liked who too much. D.I. Irons had a very trustworthy face. Her partner, on the other hand, scared me. I don’t trust quiet people.

  “Okay, I’ll tell you. But I’m not going to single anyone out. It’s all or nothing.”

  “Tell us what you know, Miss Palmer.” Brabazon was beginning to get annoyed.

  “All right, I will.” I gripped the side of the table and began to deliver a full account of the crimes of Robert H. Thomas. “The fact is that Bob took great pleasure in being nasty. He treated pretty much anyone below him like they were subhuman. He was creepy around female employees, especially the young ones, and if he didn’t like someone, he left them in no doubt on the matter.

  “After last year’s summer social, he uploaded photos to the office WhatsApp of my colleague Suzie kissing Jack the security guard. He couldn’t stand either one of them. Oh, and when Amara was promoted to deputy director over him, it kicked off this massive feud. It went on for months until he threatened to sue the company and they ended up sharing the job.”

  There were so many incidents where Bob had done his utmost to create a perfectly toxic working environment at P&P that it was hard to choose which ones to talk about. “He spent years referring to Ramesh as the queer one though Bob knew he wasn’t gay. The last time Wendy in H.R. had a new hairstyle he told her it looked like a badger had died on her head and, on at least three occasions, he asked Amara if she was pregnant when she wasn’t.”

  “Is there anything that really stands out in your mind though? Did you personally witness any occasion when his behaviour crossed a line?”

  I hesitated then. I didn’t want to make anyone’s life harder than it already was. “If you’re asking me who’d want him dead then I’d have to go with Jack. They had a bit of a brawl at the Christmas party. I don’t know the details but they’ve barely looked at each other since it happened. Or it could be Amara over the promotion. Or Ramesh after the years of bullying. And now that I think about it, Wendy–”

  “Thank you, Miss Palmer,” D.I. Brabazon said. A slightly conciliatory tone perhaps?

  “Wait. There’s more. Lots more…”

  Chapter Three

  Bob wasn’t your run-of-the-mill office bully. Behind all his nasty comments, inappropriate behaviour and general thuggishness, he was clever. There was thought behind his actions as he belittled, berated and divided up the office; a coordinated plan known only to him. In my four years at P&P I saw few people stand up to him. Until his final day that is.

  I could tell the dynamic detective duo very little about Bob’s life outside the office. I’d only met his wife once at a work do. She was sweet and softly spoken, the complete opposite of Bob, who, as soon as he saw us talking, bounded over to make sure the poor woman wasn’t saying anything bad about him.

  “Selina, do stop boring everybody.” Her tyrannical spouse grabbed the half-sipped glass of wine from her hand as he barged between us.

  She laughed in reply. It was the sad, defeated reaction of a woman who was ashamed of her husband but didn’t want anyone to know it. That was the only time I can think of that I literally wanted to knife Bob. It was lucky for him I’d stuck to finger food.

  As I waited outside the police station, I wondered how Selina Thomas had felt when the police brought her the news. Did she break down in the doorway and shed every last tear in her body? Or invite them in for tea, letting out a muffled cheer of joy as the kettle boiled?

  On the way to the station, I’d had the full, five-star criminal treatment but, when the police were done with me, I had to make my own way home. I rang Mum and she drove across town to get me.

  “This is fantastic, darling!” she said as I got into her tiny yellow Corsa. “I want you to tell me all about it.”

  She looked as sparklingly pretty as ever. I folded my legs up to fit inside.

  “A man is dead, Mother. It’s not something to be chirpy about.” It was bad enough that I’d gone full Miss Marple. I didn’t need her encouraging me.

  “Of course, sweetie. You’re totally right.” She surged away from the curb before having to stop just as quickly at a traffic light. “It’s terribly sad but also the tiniest bit thrilling, no?”

  I looked at her sternly in the hope it might calm her down.

  “My boss was murdered, I found the body. There’s not much more to say.”

  “Oh, come on, darling. I’m dying to know what happened. How was he killed? Who do you think done it?”

  I do love my mother but sometimes her perky enthusiasm can get a bit much. We zoomed off again and I gripped onto the dashboard, praying we wouldn’t crash. It’s not that she’s a bad driver exactly, she’s just not very good when there’s someone there to distract her.

  “Details, darling! Details!”

  “Really, Mother, I could be traumatised for all you know and you’re going on like it’s my first day at school.”

  “I’ve never known you to be traumatised, sweetie. It’s not your style. And all I’m saying is that you should feel extremely fortunate. Not everyone is lucky enough to discover a murder.”

  “I think it’s time we put you in a home.”

  “If it was me, I’d want to uncover exactly what happened.” Her car went slingshotting round a roundabout and I banged my head on the side window. “And who’s better placed to solve the crime than you, Izzy? You know everything that goes on in that office. I’ve always said you’ve got an inquisitive mind. It’s about time you put it to use.”

  If I don’t make it as the head of the U.N., Mum has always dreamed of me becoming a private detective. She’s never come out with it directly, but she’s dropped some pretty big hints over the years. A birthday cake in the shape of a looking glass, a book on improving your memory for Christmas, that quiet word she once had with my high-school careers adviser to steer me in the right direction.

  We’d left behind the indelible stamp of over-grown, post-war office buildings and made it to the leafy suburbs beyond the town centre. We lived in West Wickham, a slightly out-of-time commuter town for people who want all the facilities Croydon has to offer whilst still being able to say they live in Kent. Its high street was dotted with cobblers, faded ladies’ fashion shops and gentleman’s outfitters among the ubiquitous nail parlours and fried chicken takeaways. I never thought I’d still be living there at twenty-nine.

  “By the way, Danny’s round,” my mother announced, once it was clear I wasn’t going to cough up any more information on Bob’s death.


  Danny used to be my neighbour but adopted my family when we were kids and still comes to stay. He’s a doctor without borders – though someone really should have set him some. He’s far too handsome to look at directly and a terrible flirt. I wouldn’t mind so much if we hadn’t grown up like brother and sister. It’s exhausting; I have no idea whether his flirty comments are childhood banter or a full on invitation for kissy time (sorry, not good at sexy talk).

  “Sweetheart?” My mother broke into my thoughts. “I said, Danny’s over for a visit.”

  “Niiiiiiiiiiice,” I replied nonchalantly. Playin’ it cool.

  We pulled up at the house and mother hooted the horn so that my stepfather Greg glanced out at us through the front room window. A few seconds later, Danny bounded from the house. He was springy and cheerful like a lithe, seductive Saint Bernard.

  “You look great, Izzy. Have you been in the sun?” You see what I’m up against?

  I looked at the sky and tried to remember the last time I’d seen that big yellow floaty thing. “Must be my naturally swarthy features.” I’m about as Latin-looking as mashed potatoes.

  He laughed handsomely, then held out his hand to help me from the car. Far too smooth for his own good, you could use Danny as a chamois leather.

  “She’s been nowhere near the sun. She was locked up in a cell all morning. See if you can get the details from her,” Mother called over her shoulder before disappearing into the house.

  “Sounds exciting,” Danny said, as my eyes lingered a little too long over the deepness of his vee.

  Sorry about all this, I really can’t help myself. I promise this isn’t going to turn into some sordid, steamy affair in which he takes me up to my room to dole out a suitable punishment.

  Izzy, snap out of it!

  Yes, brain. Sorry, brain. Won’t do it again.

  “I was nowhere near a cell.” I rolled my eyes. “I was merely helping the police with their enquiries.”

  “Sounds less exciting.”

  “What about you, Danny? Have you cured any diseases recently? Found a solution to world hunger?”