Then, at about 8.50, Bob switched the screen to a Turkish television channel, where they were counting down to the New Year three hours ahead of us. I don’t know where he found it, on the internet, I imagine. They would have Turkish television there, wouldn’t they?
They had music, dancers, and a host who we couldn’t understand, but you absolutely knew the type, so you had a rough idea of the sort of thing he’d be saying. A countdown clock appeared on the screen – Turkish numbers are the same as ours – and a brass band started playing the Turkish national anthem or something similar. When it reached ‘10’ we all joined in counting down; and, as it hit nine p.m. here it hit midnight in Turkey and they set off the fireworks and we all hugged and cheered and wished each other a Happy New Year. A rock band started playing on the TV so Bob turned it down, and Ron started ‘Auld Lang Syne’ and we linked arms and thought of old acquaintances, and thanked our lucky stars for seeing another New Year. Ten minutes or so later, we drifted home, New Year celebrated and ready for an early night.
To look at Bob in the restaurant, or wandering through the village, you might dismiss him as boring. He is quiet and shy, and is always in a grey jumper over a stiff white shirt. But this man had the wherewithal to give us all a wonderful evening. To be able to get Turkish TV on an English telly, and also to have the kindness to understand how much everyone would enjoy it, well, that takes quite a man.
And I know what you’re thinking, but, again, he’s not my type. I wish that he was.
I texted ‘Happy New Year’ to Joanna, and she texted back ‘HNY’, as if the effort of spelling out the words was a bit too much. I texted ‘Happy New Year’ to Viktor too, and he texted back ‘May you be granted health and wealth and wisdom, and may you see your beauty reflected in those around you,’ which was much more like it. I then raised a glass to Gerry, as I always do.
I also raised a glass to Bernard, here last New Year, and gone now. We won’t all be here this time next year, that’s just the facts of the matter. Those at the back of the line will fall, and no one will tell you where you are in the line. Though at my age I have a rough idea. As Ibrahim always says, ‘The numbers don’t look good.’
There are plenty of things to look forward to though, and that’s the key. What’s the point of another year if you don’t fill it? I am looking forward to Donna’s scheme to help Mervyn, even if I’ve rather given up on Mervyn himself. Why can’t Bob from Wordsworth Court have Mervyn’s eyebrows and his deep voice, and why can’t Mervyn have Bob’s kindness and cleverness? I’m so shallow, I wish I wasn’t.
When I think about it, Gerry had kindness and cleverness
I can hear Alan’s tail thumping against the leg of my desk, even though the man himself is fast asleep.
A very Happy New Year to you. May you see many more.
The victim is a man called Kuldesh Sharma, and the body has been here for some days. An antiques dealer from Brighton. The car had been found at around six thirty this morning, by a local man walking his dog. Walking his dog in the dark on New Year’s Day? I mean, sure mate, whatever you say. Not Chris’s problem though – he has a corpse to deal with.
And so here they are. It’s so nearly a lovely view, thinks Chris, his breath frosty in the early-morning air.
A narrow, deeply pitted track cuts through the Kent woods, ridged with frost, ending at a wooden fence, penning in winter sheep. A scene from across the centuries, unbroken for generations. Silver-white branches reach out overhead, latticing a brilliant blue sky.
It might be a Christmas postcard, but for the extreme violence.
Chris has had a few days off over Christmas. Patrice had come down from London, and Chris had cooked her a turkey, which was much too big and had taken far too long to cook, but which seemed to be greatly appreciated. Briefly, possibly during
Donna had been at work. Christmas at the station is often quite good fun though. Mince pies, the odd arrest, double pay. She had joined them in the evening, with Bogdan. Chris had suddenly panicked that Bogdan might have proposed. And with a nicer ring? But that really would be too soon.
The frost crunches underfoot.
If the birds had been disturbed by the gunshot, their disturbance was long forgotten, and their happy noise echoes above. Even the sheep are back about their business. It is serene and peaceful, and the pure-white overalls of the forensic officers shine in the low winter sun. Chris and Donna duck under the police tape and walk towards the small car, plump and berry-red in this Christmas grotto.
