Festival of Murder by Ross Macfarlane KC, Chapter 6: Was That Not a Film with Joan Crawford?

Illustration: : Lesley-Anne Barnes Macfarlane | Illustration: : Lesley-Anne Barnes Macfarlane

The Cumberland Bar

Three pints. Three cronies.

JD laughed: ‘What a life! All these beauties. You kiss one beautiful woman goodbye up to her work and you end up meeting another one. You’re a lucky beggar, Wood.’

Doc spoke up: ‘Three beauties, not two.’

Wood frowned: ‘Three?’

Doc counted on his fingers: ‘One: Abbie…’

‘Doesn’t count - she’s my granddaughter…’

Doc continued: ‘Two, the detective girl…’

‘Maddy Price.’

Doc nodded: ‘Maddy Price…’

JD butted in: ‘Was that not a film with Joan Crawford?’

Wood frowned: ‘I think that was “Mildred Pierce”.’

‘Oh yeah. This is ‘“Maddy Price - Dolly Detective” - I bet it says that on her card…’

Wood threw a scrunched-up paper napkin at JD, then: ‘Shut up, you. Continue, good doctor.’

‘…and Three: Katharine Livingstone. Your Forensic expert outside the High Court.’

Wood raised his glass: ‘Of course. The wonderful and mysterious Katharine Livingstone.’

JD folded his arms, shook his head and made a rough horn sound - “UH-OH” like in a game show where the answer is wrong.

Wood laughed: ‘And what is it that vexes you about our fine forensic examiner, JD?’

JD lifted his pint glass: ‘I have a rule about these things. I never date women who dismember men for a living. I had enough of that in my last divorce.’

A silent sip of the pints.

The Doc spoke: ‘Odd, isn’t it. Here we are, three men in their later 60s, still talking about women as if we’re 14 years old.’

JD shook his head: “Hey, Doc - don’t knock my hobbies! Leave me with some mystery in life.’

Wood took another sip: ‘The only mystery here is - when you look at those three women we were just talking about - why aren’t women ruling the world?’

Doc smiled: ‘Maybe they do already - but they haven’t told us yet. What did the lady detective have to say about the case?’

‘Maddy Price?’

‘No - Mildred Pierce! Of course - Detective Price - what did she think?’

Wood considered this: ‘Well, she…she was a bit hamstrung because her superior was there…’

‘That McKee fellow?’

‘Yes - DI McKee. He was adamant that the whole thing was suicide. In fairness, there were signs pointing to that. But it seemed like he was just trying to get home early. Maddy Price wasn’t…wasn’t quite…’

‘Wasn’t quite what?’

‘Wasn’t quite…convinced. For example, she pointed something out. The place had wall-to-wall paintings. Large and small. But, in the old lady’s bedroom, there was a faded mark on the wall, near the bed, as if one of the paintings had recently been removed. You know, that kind of faint mark you get when you take something off the wall that’s been there for years and years.’

Doc nodded. ‘Who else lived there?’

‘Just the lady - Rose Bryant - “the Lady in Red” (as they’re calling her). Her husband died last year. Sixty-six years married. Childhood sweethearts.’

‘Kids?’

‘They’re not sure. Either a son or a daughter - the neighbours were pretty new, and the lady was a wee bit tetchy - more-or-less kept herself to herself.

Doc nodded: ‘A sad tale. Husband died last year. Maybe explains a lot, though. Lady in Red can’t live without…’

JD butted in: ‘Is that what they’re actually calling this case? “The Lady in Red”?’

‘Yup’

‘Wasn’t there a song called “Lady in Red”?’

‘Uh-huh.’

‘Of course - I remember it now. From the 1980s.’ He started to sing: ‘Lady in red…is dawn-sing with meeeee….’

Wood mock-groaned: ‘Dear Lord - please kill me now…’

JD balled his fist: ‘No, no! That song had a profound effect on me at the time.’

‘A profound effect?’

‘Yes. Every time it came on the radio…I wanted to throw myself out the window…’

*****

St Giles Cathedral is a really cool place.

Wally Wood smiled – ‘cool’ in the sense of very pleasing on a temperature level on a boiling hot day (which today was). Not ‘cool’ as in the adolescent description on anything that demographic found pleasing. He frowned. Maybe he was being a little harsh. Maybe it was ‘cool’ in that sense too.

The cathedral was one of Wood’s go-to places whenever he was in the vicinity. Not particularly religious, but it was a beautifully quiet place to sit and think through the problems of the day in one of the side chapels. Many a time, before prosecuting a case in the High Court across the road, Wood would find himself sitting in the Albany Aisle thinking a single prayer: ‘Dear Lord - let me be competent today. And let justice prevail.’

Then a walk to the back of the cathedral to stand for a while to look at his favourite stained-glass window, the Burne-Jones with the bright, gorgeous ruby red trio of fiery angels at the top and the three young women at the bottom. Two of the ladies were Bible celebrities – Miriam and Ruth – but the gentle, forlorn girl on the left had no name. Just ‘Jephthah’s daughter’. Wood closed his eyes. Was it the Book of Kings? No – it was Judges. The warrior Jephthah made a deal with God – let me win the battle and I’ll kill the next person who comes out of that door…

And out came his own daughter. Jephthah’s daughter. No name recorded. Wood sighed. Just another senseless victim.

And he bowed his head said a prayer for the Lady in Red.

*****

Festival of Murder continues tomorrow in: You’re Biting Your Bottom Lip