‘Roy – that’s Cedric’s son – and his wife Michelle will be arriving in Chichester from Worcester tomorrow,’ said Tim Goodrich.
‘Right. And how do you come to be the executor? Are you part of the family?’
‘No. It’s a rather strange connection, actually …’
It was that Sunday evening. We were sitting in a pub near the Market Cross in the centre of Chichester. It was, I only remembered once we had agreed to meet there, the one I’d gone to with Oliver the first time I met him. He’d come to do an author talk about one of his cartoon books in the Waterstones, where I was working at the time. Back then it was midwinter, Chichester had been dark and covered with snow. Now, at seven thirty in the evening, benefiting from the recent change to Summer Time, it was still daylight.
‘I really knew his wife,’ Tim continued, ‘rather than Cedric himself.’
‘Flick,’ I said.
‘Yes. Did you know her?’
‘No, it was just that Cedric was always talking about Flick.’
‘Yes, I’m sure he was. One of those marriages where he would have been totally helpless without her.’
‘As he proved to be,’ I said.
‘Yes. Anyway, Flick was the one I knew. Or at least I met her first. I’m a doctor. She was one of the practice nurses when I was attached to a surgery here in Chichester. I got quite close to both of them. They were redoing their wills at some point and she asked if I’d mind being put down as Cedric’s executor, the assumption being that he’d go before she did, she’d sort out his estate and my services wouldn’t be called on much. But, as it turned out …’
‘She went first.’
‘Yes. Sad, she was a lovely woman. Life and soul of every party.’
He was pensive for a moment and took a long swallow from his pint of Harvey’s. I was drinking Merlot. Could go for a second glass if the suggestion arose – I had walked from home.
It was the first opportunity I had really had to look at him. Tim Goodrich, fifties probably, round my age, trim but beginning to thicken out. Dark hair giving way to grey. And the voice that I’d noticed on the phone, mellow, reassuring. I could imagine that he’d been a very good doctor. A person one could confide in without embarrassment.
‘You imply,’ I said, ‘that you’re no longer working in Chichester.’
‘No, I’m not. There were things I liked about being a GP, but I didn’t really feel fulfilled doing it. And I had domestic problems, as well.’ This intrigued me but I didn’t say anything. ‘So, I went back to Oxford to do a PhD. In fact, my leaving the practice coincided with Flick’s retirement, so we had a joint farewell party. We’re talking eight years ago now. In the George and Dragon in North Street – you probably know it?’
‘Yes.’
‘And then, only a few weeks later …’ He ran out of words. It seemed that Cedric’s wife had meant a lot to him.
I shifted the conversation. ‘Are you still doing the PhD?’
‘No, I got that. Stayed in Oxford, though. Doing research, which I think is where I always wanted to be.’
‘And what are you doing research into?’
He chuckled. ‘I don’t want to blind you with science.’
‘Try me,’ I said.
‘The subject of my research is serotonin. Heard of it?’
‘Yes.’ I wasn’t going to say how I knew. ‘Serotonin is the substance in the body whose levels can be adjusted by certain antidepressants.’
‘Very good.’ He nodded his head slowly up and down in an act of admiration. ‘“Selective serotonin reuptake inhibitors”, to give them their full title. Well, even now we know relatively little about how serotonin works. That’s what I’m trying to find out.’
‘Good luck.’
‘Thank you. We continue to need it.’ He took another swallow of Harvey’s. ‘And you, Ellen? I gather you were at Cedric’s house in a professional capacity …?’
‘Yes.’
‘So, what exactly do you do?’
I explained. And, bless him, he got it first time. None of this thinking I did house clearance or, if you were in my mother’s camp, cleaning. Tim Goodrich understood what decluttering is, and also why there was such need for it in modern society.
‘Do you know of other people round here who provide the same service?’ asked Tim.
‘Decluttering? I’m sure there are others. I’ve heard a few names mentioned, but I haven’t had anything to do with them. I wouldn’t, really. I work on my own.’
‘Oh? Well, there is one locally who seems to have it in for you.’
‘Really?’ The idea seemed incongruous. Since I’d had no dealings with another declutterer, I’d given no one cause to take against me.
Tim explained. ‘I heard from Roy that his father’s body had been found by the declutterer who’d been working with him, so I thought I’d make contact. But Roy hadn’t got your name.’ I was slightly miffed by that; he might have registered who it was had rung to inform him of his father’s death. But then again, he could have been distracted by the news and not taking things in properly. (I always try to think the best of people, though sometimes it’s bloody hard work.)
‘So, when I got down here,’ Tim continued, ‘I went online to check out declutterers. There weren’t many. I tried the first one on the list, BrightHome. I asked the woman if she’d been doing some work at Fourteen Seacrest Avenue. She said no, that would probably be SpaceWoman. And then she said …’ He hesitated.
‘Then she said what?’
‘“Steer clear of her, unless you want to get ripped off.”’
‘What!’ Obviously, I’ve had complaints over the years I’ve been operating SpaceWoman. You can’t run a business like mine without putting a few backs up. Also, I tend to be dealing with people at a stressful time of their lives when they’re quick to take offence. But to know that there was someone out there deliberately badmouthing me and my work … well, it was a shock.
Tim apologized. ‘I’m just reporting what she said. Is she someone you’ve had run-ins with before?’
‘What’s her name?’
‘Rosemary Findlay.’
‘Not only have I not had run-ins with her, I’ve never heard of her.’
‘I’m sorry to have drawn her to your attention then.’
‘No, Tim. If there’s someone out there saying stuff like that about me, I’d rather know.’ I shook my head in bewilderment. ‘Very odd.’
‘I would like you to rest assured,’ said Tim, affecting a lawyer-like voice, ‘that, having met you, I am convinced that Rosemary Findlay is an appallingly mendacious woman and everything she has said about you is vile calumny.’
I giggled. ‘Oh well, thanks. That’s very British of you.’
With a smile, he nodded his head, acknowledging the mock-compliment. ‘I wonder if you’d mind, Ellen, just running through for me the precise circumstances of how you found Cedric’s body. Now I’m stuck in this role of executor, I’d like to have as much information as possible.’
So, I went through the sequence of events, more or less exactly as I had for the police.
At the end, he thanked me and suggested another glass of Merlot. I hadn’t noticed that my glass was nearly empty and readily agreed. As I say, no driving to worry about. Besides, I was enjoying Tim Goodrich’s company.
He brought my drink and had got himself a second pint. ‘I think we should raise a glass to Cedric’s memory,’ he said. We did, and both took long swallows.
Then, quite abruptly, Tim changed the subject. ‘Silly question to ask, but you have no reason to think that there was anything odd about Cedric’s death?’
‘“Odd”? As in …?’
‘“Odd”, as in: Do you think he died a natural death?’
‘Is death ever “natural”? Actually, I believe it is. I’m not religious or anything, but I do believe that there’s a natural span to everyone’s life. And, for Cedric, whose life had been so diminished by the loss of Flick, yes, I would say that he had reached the end of his natural span.’
‘Hm.’
‘You don’t sound convinced.’
‘No. It’s silly. Just, when you know someone’s medical history …’
‘You were Cedric’s GP?’
‘Yes. And he was one of the ones I thought would last long into his nineties.’
‘Maybe, Tim. But, even for a doctor, life expectancy isn’t an exact science, is it?’
‘True.’
‘Flick was presumably expected to live way beyond retirement and yet she lasted only a couple of months.’
‘Yes, yes, you’re right.’ He grinned wearily. ‘This is the wrong way round. You should be the romantic sentimentalist. I should be the cold-eyed, scientific realist.’
‘Well, you certainly know more about medical matters than I do.’
‘I suppose I do.’
‘Besides, however robust Cedric may have been when you last saw him, I can’t think that eight years of solitary incarceration in Fourteen Seacrest Avenue was conducive to good health.’
‘No. You’re right.’ Another long swallow of Harvey’s. ‘I can’t get away from the feeling, though.’
‘What feeling?’
‘The feeling that there was something funny about Cedric’s death.’