Festival of Murder by Ross Macfarlane KC, Chapter 16: Every Day is a Gift

Ilustration: Lesley-Anne Barnes Macfarlane | Ilustration: Lesley-Anne Barnes Macfarlane

‘You seem more cheerful this morning.’ Abbie smiled.

Wood - still a bit bleary - raised his morning mug of coffee: ‘Every day is a gift.’

Abbie nodded: ‘Agreed - but for you, it’s usually a toy on Christmas Day where they forgot to include the batteries. And all the shops are shut.’

Wallace Wood grinned: ‘Oh, I do miss the 1960s’. He took his cup over to the sink and nodded back to Abbie: ‘And what does today hold for Abbie, our intrepid Festival functionary?’

‘There’s a guy hitting on me at work.’

The grandfather raised his eyebrows: ‘You want me to have…a word with him?’

‘Unnecessary. Remember last time?’

Wood looked coy: ‘Do I have to?’

‘You told my last suitor that he could get 12 months in prison….’

‘In fairness, I told him that (a) that would be for unwanted physical contact and (b) it would be reduced to 8 months for a plea at first instance.’

Abbie grinned and shook her head: ‘That won’t be necessary here. I think I like him. So - I’m ignoring him at the moment to see if he has the amorous stamina required.’

Wood gave his granddaughter the thumbs up: ‘Treat ‘em mean and keep ‘em keen.’

The lady mock-frowned: ‘I was thinking more ‘Act oblivious, keep ‘em lascivious’’.

Wood’s phone gave a *ting* with a new message. He continued to wash his cup. Abbie raised her eyebrows. Wood kept washing the cup. Another *ting*. The granddaughter began to drum her fingers. ‘You know, grampa Wally, there is a mute button facility on the *tings*. Of course - at this time in the morning - isn’t that likely to be your little friend? Detective Price. Maybe, you know, she would like another cozy ‘tete-a-tete’.’

‘It’ll be work related…’

‘Said the man without a job….’

Another *ting*. Wood did nothing. Abbie pointed at the phone: ‘I think we have a smitten kitten here, grampa Wally.’ She began to sing: ‘“And they called it Puppy Lo-o-o-ove”…’

Wood shook his head: ‘And how do you even know that bloody song?’

‘It was in Wallace and Gromit…

*****

Abbie was right. The text was from Detective Maddy Price. Wood was also right. The text bore to be about work: ‘So we know now the son didn’t do it. How about another go? But this time about the stolen painting? Might be useful?’

Wood sent her a thumbs-up icon in reply.

Then went and shaved.

*****

‘This is harassment!’

Detective Maddy Price leaned forward and gave a professional smile: ‘It’s an invitation, Mr Bryant. Nothing more than that.’

Alex Bryant sat back in his chair. Wood studied him. Bryant was noticeably different today. Deflated. Less peacock, more chicken drumstick. Wood had a lifetime of asking questions. Could not resist: ‘How’s your show going? Any reviews yet?’

Bryant shrugged: ‘One reviewer came to me afterwards. Said she would give me ‘one star’ because they don’t do ‘no stars’. Asked me if I’d like to have that published or just leave it.’

Wood shot a look at Maddy. Was it telepathy that they both had the words ‘Just leave it’ in their heads. Bryant pursed his lips: ‘Remember - Jesus only had 12 followers at the start and I already have 457. On Facebook, I mean.’

Wood had the thought: ‘He’s comparing himself to God’s Chosen Son. Maybe he is a real artist after all…’

Maddy gave a ‘tell-me-all-about-it’ smile: ‘You’ve talked before about your ‘message’. What is your message?

For someone who revelled in trying to attract attention by any means, Bryant was different now. Wood had the strong feeling that if Alex/Alexis Bryant could become invisible at will, then that would be their fondest wish today. The (no-longer) suspect struggled to speak. ‘I saw this…this…documentary once and it was about this baby monkey. And what they did was that they took the wee monkey away from its birth mother early on, and they gave it to a fake, metal mother - like a malevolent robot thing. All jagged and spiky it was. The robot mother, I mean. But that wee monkey still tried to cuddle that jagged…jagged impostor that they had given it. That’s what cruel Mother Nature does. She creates these bonds, deep bonds that you can’t help. All the time, you’re looking for warmth, for mothering – and you get a cold piece of steel. With a heart of metal. And that’s me. That wee monkey was me.’

At that moment, a feeling overcame Wood that he had not expected. He felt touched. Pity. The figure before him, stripped of the hair extensions and the false nails, stripped of the repulsive attempt at bravado, in that moment it was like examining a floppy chart of an x-ray into Alex Bryant’s soul. Wood recognised a victim sitting before him. Not of a physical assault or a home invasion, but here was a vulnerable little animal whose troubled personality had been created on a daily basis by a distant, uncaring parent.

Madeleine Price continued with gentle persistence: ‘And the message, Alex…’ (Wood frowned - for the first time, Maddy had just called. Bryant by his first name…) ‘… your message, is it that we should maybe punish those bad parents…is that what….’

NO NO NO NO NO - The voice in Wood’s head was so loud, it almost surprised him that the words didn’t echo around the room. This was not the tack to take - trying to get the…the…what was Bryant? Not ‘the accused’ - not even the ‘suspect’…as he was just about to tell us something important. Wood could feel it! Maybe not exactly confessing to chucking his old mum out of a five storey window - but something relevant. This wasn’t the time for the clod-hopping, blunt instrument of the ‘Aha!’ Leading Question! Wood had an un-generous thought: maybe Maddy Price had absorbed some of Bobby McKee’s bad habits after all.

Wood gave Maddy’s foot a hard kick under the table.

‘Ow!’

Wood gave a plastic smile: ‘What the detective was trying to say, Mr Bryant, was ‘how’? How would you best describe your message?

Maddy gave Wood (what he took to be) a lethal smile. ‘Yes - how would you describe it?’ She began to rub her ankle.

*****

Festival of Murder continues tomorrow in: Maybe Warhol Was Right