Six weeks earlier

‘I seriously can’t believe you’re making me do this,’ says Jennie, turning to face me and inadvertently flashing her phone torch into my eyes. 

‘Argh!’ I wail, shielding my eyes with my hand. ‘Christ Jennie, I think you blinded me, watch what you’re doing with that will you? Shine it on the keypad, not into my actual soul.’

She adjusts her phone to illuminate a small set of buttons, showing the numbers one to nine, plus the obligatory hash and star key. Not that I can ever remember using a star key at any time in my life ever. 

‘Well don’t just stand there,’ says Jennie, shoving me in the ribs, ‘it’s bloody freezing, get us inside at least.’ 

‘It’s November, of course it’s freezing, let me find the code.’ I rummage in my pocket, pulling out a used tissue and a Superdrug receipt.

‘Here we go,’ I say, holding up the receipt. Jennie shines the torch on it. 

‘Jeez Anna, £37.99 on moisturiser? What a con! How moist is it possible to be?’

‘Not moist enough,’ I say, ‘not at our age.’ I turn back to the keypad. ‘Can we concentrate on the matter at hand and not shame me for wanting to be an ally for my own perimenopause?’

‘Okay Davina,’ says Jennie, ‘what do we need the receipt for anyway?’

‘I wrote the code on it,’ I say, pointing at the six digit number scrawled along one edge in blue biro. I tap in the numbers and a small LED glows green. The metal gate clicks open and we slip inside, pulling it closed behind us. Our footsteps echo in the dark as we cross the concrete yard towards a set of double doors. 

‘I can’t see anyone else,’ whispers Jennie, panning her torch around, ‘it’s not too late to back out.’

‘We are not backing out. You know I have to do this. And you promised.’

‘I’d had three glasses of red wine, you took advantage.’

‘You pinkie promised,’ I say as we reach the door, pushing it open and entering a long, dimly lit corridor. We’ve been friends since we were nine years old, so I know that this matters. 

‘Fine,’ she says, ‘but no one can know.’

‘A few people are definitely going to know,’ I say, nodding towards the doorway at the end of the corridor. The door is ajar and from inside we can hear voices. ‘And a lot of others will too if you end up on the tombola.’

Jennie looks at me aghast. ‘Behind the scenes only you said!’

‘We’ll see,’ I say, in the voice I use on the kids that means it’s already decided. I push open the door and nine faces turn to look at us. ‘Besides,’ I whisper, as we head in and sit down on plastic classroom chairs, ‘it’s only a PTA winter fair, what’s the worst that could happen?’
‍ ‍

Chapter 1

‘Seriously Oli, I don’t know how many times I have to say this, we are not having Christmas dinner.’

‘I get it,’ he says, full of mock innocence, ‘I totally get the whole ‘break the Christmas curse’ thing we’re going for, and I’m not pushing Christmas dinner, I fancied some sprouts that’s all. I like sprouts.’

I raise my eyebrows at him across the perpetually cluttered kitchen island. I don’t think there has been one full day where I’ve been able to maintain my dream of a single, artistically arranged bowl of fruit. 

‘You did not just ‘fancy some sprouts’. How often do you eat sprouts in a year that aren’t part of a Christmas dinner? Zero times.’

‘I could eat sprouts,’ he protests feebly, because we both know the truth.

‘And don’t call it a Christmas curse,’ I whisper loudly, looking quickly from side to side, ‘we don’t want to anger anything. We’ve had a couple of years with a run of bad luck and I thought it might be a nice change to do the holiday season a bit differently.’

Ben snorts, loud enough that we can hear him with his head inside the fridge, a talent possessed by a lot of 17 year old boys. He takes his head out, a slice of cold pizza in hand, and closes the door. 

‘I think most people would consider two dead bodies two years running more than a bit of bad luck Mum, no offence.’

‘You don’t have to add ‘no offence’ to the end of everything,’ I say, ‘it’s not a full stop.’ I suspect teenagers are so used to everything they say to their parents being potentially offensive that they add it as standard. It’s evolution really, like fish growing legs and walking out of the sea. 

‘And you don’t have to find a corpse everywhere you go Mum, but it seems you can’t help it.’

‘I do not find a corpse everywhere I go,’ I say. ‘I’ve found two corpses, that’s all. And don’t forget I have actually solved the murder of both of them and founded my own private investigation company as a result thank you very much.’

‘Ah yes, how could we forget your current case! What is it again? The mystery of the disappearing recycling bins?’

‘Okay Ben,’ says Oli, ‘that’s enough, no need to be mean just because you haven’t eaten in ten minutes.’ 

‘Sorry Mum,’ says Ben, shoving the slice of pizza into his mouth and spraying congealed cheese crumbs as he speaks, ‘South Medling isn’t the place for heists and espionage I guess.’

It’s true that Anna Johnson Investigations has been a bit slow to take off, and I have had to get the part-time job in the health food shop since AI stole my tedious sofa bed copywriting work. Still, Finger on the Pulse is a steady income at least and I doubt Magnum got his sports car year one.

‘And it’s fine about the Christmas dinner, honestly,’ says Oli, pushing an unopened packet of Christmas cards and a box of cat food pouches to one side to make room on the island for the sprout stick, ‘I’m looking forward to our homemade poke bowls.’

Another snort from Ben. ‘It’s not a poke bowl dad, not like ‘I’m going to poke you with my sprout stick.’

‘How do you say it then?’ Oli asks. ‘Is it pokey, as in ‘this bedroom’s a bit pokey?’

‘I’ll ask ChatGPT,’ I say, getting out my phone. ‘Ahh, that’s nice!’

‘What’s nice?’ asks Oli.

‘I told it about our non-traditional Christmas poke bowl dinner and it said it was a lovely idea and very me, so someone is on my side at least!’

‘It’s not on your side Mum, it’s AI, it’s not your friend. It’s literally a piece of code set up to tell you exactly what you want to hear. Especially since you told it to talk to you like a reassuring husband.’

Oli gives me a hurt look. ‘Why would you tell it that? Aren’t I reassuring enough for you?’

‘More than enough darling, you’re wonderful, but I don’t want to bother you at work every time I’m worried that one of the cats has a funny walk or something, so it’s handy that’s all. Like a spare you, for when you’re not here. And it’s POH-kay, to rhyme with okay, and if you want to be extra impressive you can leave a little pause between syllables apparently.’

‘As absolutely thrilling as this is,’ interrupts Ben, ‘I’m off to see Sasha now.’ He grabs a banana from the fruit bowl and leaves without a backward glance. I brush the pizza crumbs into my hand, consider walking to the bin, and brush my hands onto the floor. I need to sweep it later anyway.

I check the time. Quarter to five. ‘I need to get a move on,’ I say, easing myself down from the stool, ‘I said I’d pick Jennie up at quarter past for the fair set up. You’re good here for dinner with Lily? Probably cook and save something for Ben, he’ll eat it even if he eats with Sasha.’

‘Yep, all good here,’ says Oli, ‘we’ll have sprouts.’

I walk around the island and give him a big hug, breathing in his familiar smell. ‘You know that ChatGPT could never replace you don’t you?’

He hugs me back and kisses the top of my head. ‘I’d hope there are some things that I’m indispensable for at least,’ he says, giving my bum a squeeze.

I look up into his eyes and give him a kiss. ‘Oh yes,’ I whisper, smiling, ‘I think we’re a long way yet from AI being able to put out the bins.’

I head up the stairs to change out of my ‘day off work’ clothes, which are basically pyjamas posing as leisurewear. Fridays are usually my detective agency days, but December has been very quiet - everyone is too busy enjoying horrendously overpriced magical Christmas activities I guess. 

I deliberately don’t use the bannister as I climb the stairs. I saw a video a few months ago of a woman who was 93 - allegedly, although she looked remarkably good for it - who could still get up off the floor without using her hands. On the landing I stop to poke my head into Lily’s bedroom. She’s sitting at her little dressing table, framed by a string of ladybird lights. 

‘Hey Lils,’ I say, leaning against the doorframe and then correcting myself and standing up straight because of hands.

‘Awright me ol’ mucker?’ she says in a strong cockney accent.

‘I thought we were having a break from that for the school holidays?’ I ask hopefully. Lily is deep in character development because now that she’s in year five she gets to audition for one of the main roles in the school’s summer play. They are going to be doing Oliver and she has her heart set on Nancy. To be honest Oliver feels a bit much for 9 and 10 year olds, but there we are. She’s adamant that she’s going to get it and has been channeling her best kind-hearted, rough around the edges fallen woman for weeks already. 

‘I’ve got to be Nancy though Mum,’ she says, in her normal voice, ‘I have to be Nancy. All of the other parts are rubbish and Mollie says that she’s going to get Nancy because her singing is better than mine, so I have to practice the voice.’ She looks at me plaintively.

‘Mollie’s singing is not better than yours, of course you’re going to get Nancy darling.’ 

She bloody will get Nancy. I swear, if I’ve put all this work in, cosying up to the infamous PTA chair and school play director Susannah Mortimer, being her Christmas fair bitch for nothing, well, I will not be happy, let’s say that. If she tells me one more time about her ‘wealth of directing experience’... I’m not saying that the reception class nativity is easy - especially not if you chose to include a live donkey, although you can’t really blame Joseph for what happened - but it hardly makes her Steven sodding Spielberg. 

‘I’m going out in a bit to school to get things ready for the fair on Sunday, so you’ll probably be in bed when I get back. Daddy’s here though. What are you up to?’

‘I’m writing our cracker jokes,’ she says, waving a scrap of paper at me. ‘You said we’d make our crackers this week, remember?’

I had not remembered, but it’s fine. Homemade crackers with our poke bowls are one of my Christmas concessions, mainly as a way to use up toilet rolls as nobody in my family seems capable of putting an empty toilet roll in the recycling. 

‘Do you want to hear one?’ she asks. ‘I made them up myself.’

‘Yes please,’ I say, standing even straighter and trying to look keen.

‘Are you sure?’ Lily asks, suspiciously.

‘Absolutely,’ I say.

‘Don’t laugh though,’ she says. She’s always been that classic mix of desperate for attention but equally desperate to be taken seriously.

‘They’re jokes Lily,’ I point out, ‘I kind of have to laugh.’

She takes a minute to figure it out and then laughs herself. ‘Okay, you can laugh a bit then.’ She stands up and clears her throat.

‘Why did the turkey cross the road?’

‘I don’t know, why did the turkey cross the road?’

‘Because it was scared.’

There’s an awkward pause where I consider a fake laugh and Lily looks at me expectantly.

‘You know,’ she says, gesturing impatiently with her hands, ‘because people eat turkeys at Christmas, and it didn’t want to get eaten?’

‘Hmmm, yeah, I see that bit, although perhaps it’s not funny exactly, not for the turkey at least.’

‘Okay, I’ve got others,’ she says, reaching for another of her paper scraps. ‘Why did Father Christmas sit on the sprouts?’

‘I don’t know,’ I say, ‘why did Father Christmas sit on the sprouts?’

‘Because all the chairs were taken.’

Another pause. I force a chuckle. ‘That one is funnier,’ I say, truthfully. ‘Perhaps Daddy can help you with some more after dinner. I’ve got to get ready now. See you later!’

‘Cheers me dearie!’ she shouts after me.

I carry on along the landing and into our bedroom at the end. I slide open the wardrobe door and consider my outfit options. I know it’s only a Christmas fair set up, but Susannah always looks so put together, all in shades of camel that manage to look effortless and yet vastly expensive. And then Mel will be there with that hair and probably the boots again. I want something that says ‘Oh this old thing?’ and like I’ve not really made an effort, only the trouble is that all of my clothes are genuinely old and chances are I haven’t made an effort at all, not even the pretend casual sort. 

I’ve got the cashmere knitted dress for tomorrow when we’re there all day. I say cashmere, I think it’s 3%, but perhaps it’s one of those things that’s best in tiny amounts. Like retinol. I’m thinking palazzo pants on Sunday afternoon for the actual fair, so I can waft about and look sort of chic but modest and perhaps a little wistful, like I may have been destined in another live for a successful career in events management, but missed out because of some kind of difficult but non-fatal condition that leaves my wrists too vulnerable for heavy lifting. I sigh. Maybe tonight I’ll do jeans and a nice top? Or is that too much? 

I’m rescued from myself by a shout from Oli from downstairs. ‘Do you remember where you put the floor wipes? One of the cats has thrown up a load of grass.’

I pull on jeans and a jumper and head downstairs and into the kitchen.

‘Where have you looked?’ I ask Oli, who is standing in the middle of the floor with both hands inexplicably above his head. ‘And why are you standing like that?’

He looks up at his hands as though noticing them for the first time and puts them down. ‘I don’t know,’ he says, ‘the cat sick I guess?’ He points down at his feet.

‘Did you look in the cupboard under the sink? That’s where they normally are.’

‘I haven’t looked anywhere yet,’ he says innocently. ‘I was guarding the sick to make sure no one trod in it.’

‘Right,’ I sigh, ‘so you knew I was upstairs getting ready and you were already in the kitchen and not doing anything apart from faffing around with some sprouts, but you decided to get me down to look in the cupboard that’s actually right next to you.’

‘I wasn’t faffing,’ he says, ‘and I didn’t ask you to come down, I asked about the wipes, in case you’d put them somewhere in particular.’

‘Yes,’ I say, stomping over to the sink, opening the cupboard and pulling out the wipes, ‘the somewhere in particular is the same bloody place I always put them - this cupboard right here.’ I walk back to him, thrusting the wipes into his chest.

‘Watch out for the sick!’ he cries, but it’s too late. ‘There you go,’ he says, as I bend down to pull off my sicky sock, ‘that’s why I was guarding it.’

‘Well you weren’t doing a great job,’ I point out, going into the utility room to put my socks in the washing machine and get a clean pair out of the basket. ‘Can you take this washing upstairs while I’m out too please?’

‘Your wish is my command!’ Oli says, coming into the utility room behind me, waving a floor wipe like a wand and putting it in the bin. ‘Are you okay love? You seem a bit..’ he looks at me closely, and thinks better of it. ‘Nothing.’

I laugh despite myself. ‘I’m fine, sorry for being so grumpy. I’m just stressed about this stupid PTA fair. Susannah is such a tyrant but I have to be nice to her so we can become best friends and she’ll cast Lily as Nancy. I thought dragging Jennie along might make it more bearable but it’s constant crisis management, trying to stop her upsetting Susannah or flirting too heavily with Gavin the sports coach.’

Oli pulls me in for a hug. ‘Nice deep breaths Anna, it’s only a school fair remember. It’s all going to be okay.’

‘And talking of Jennie, I really need to go or we’ll be late and Susannah will hate me and Lily’s life will be ruined.’

‘Probably not that,’ says Oli, ‘but yes, it’s ten past five so you should go. Have you got the gate code?’

‘Christ yes, I guard that daily with my life, not even you are allowed that.’

‘And remember, it’s just a fair. 48 hours and it will all be over and we can enjoy non-Christmas family fun times.’

‘You’re right, I’ll keep my head down and get through the next 48 hours. Easy peasy. I’ll see you later.’

I head out to the hall, grab my coat and keys and slam the front door shut behind me.