Kill Joy

Maybe solving murders wasn’t too different from homework, after all. She could feel herself falling head first into it, the rest of the world fading out, like when she got lost in one of her essays or listening to an entire true crime podcast series in one night, or anything really. Teachers called it ‘excellent focus’, but Pip’s mum worried that it fell much closer to obsession

d. It’s Bobby. Bobby’s the murderer.’

Sticky fingers? That meant someone who steals, didn’t it? A thief. Oh shit.

Sticky fingers? That meant someone who steals, didn’t it? A thief. Oh shit.

was still light outside, although it had a strange pink-grey glow as heavy clouds rolled in to claim the evening. The wind was picking up too, making the trees at the end of the garden dance, howling between the gaps in the music.

was still light outside, although it had a strange pink-grey glow as heavy clouds rolled in to claim the evening. The wind was picking up too, making the trees at the end of the garden dance, howling between the gaps in the music.

‘So how was it?’ Elliot Ward asked from the front of the car. Mr Ward filled several roles in Pip’s life: Cara’s dad and her history teacher. Her favourite teacher really, but don’t tell him that. She was round the Wards’ house so often he’d probably come to see her as a bonus daughter. She even had a Pip mug that lived over there.

‘Yeah, really fun,’ Cara replied from the front. ‘Pip’s in a semi-sulk because she guessed it wrong.’

‘Ah, Pip,’ Mr Ward said. ‘Probably something wrong with the game, then, eh?’ He teased, looking back quickly to smile at her and Zach sitting in the back.

‘Oh my god, do not even get her started,’ Cara said, licking her finger to start wiping away her wrinkles.

‘I preferred your theory anyway,’ Zach said to her across the dark back seat.

Pip gave him a closed-mouth smile. She supposed it wasn’t his fault he wasn’t the murderer and that the writers at Kill Joy Games were incompetent hacks. Bobby Remy as the killer, she sniffed. It was just way too easy. OK, maybe she wasn’t quite over it yet.

‘So, exams all finished now,’ Elliot said, turning the car on to the high street. ‘Excited for your freedom, guys?’

‘Oh yes,’ Zach said. ‘Got a pile of PlayStation games waiting for me.’

‘No shit, Sherlock,’ was Cara’s contribution. ‘Though Pip isn’t. Already talking about your EPQ, aren’t ya?’

‘No rest for the wicked,’ she quipped.

‘Have you picked your topic, yet, Pip?’ Elliot asked.

‘Not yet,’ she said to the back of his head. ‘But I will. Soon.’

They were approaching the roundabout, the left indicator blinking to turn down Pip and Zach’s road.

The car jolted suddenly.

Pip and Zach jerked forward against their seat belts as the car stalled.

‘Dad?’ Cara said, her voice edged with concern, staring across at him. He was focused on a point above her, outside the window.

‘Yes, yep.’ He shook his head. ‘Sorry, kids, just thought I saw … someone. Got distracted. Very sorry.’ He turned the key in the ignition, restarting the car. ‘Maybe I need to come along to some of your driving lessons, Cara,’ he laughed as the car peeled away.

Pip turned to her window, straining to make out the dark street beyond. Mr Ward had seen someone; somebody was walking past the car right now. Just another shadow until he passed under the orange glow of a street lamp.

And for a second Pip saw it too, what Mr Ward must have seen. His face. The face she knew from all the news coverage about the case, from her own fading memories. Sal Singh. Except it couldn’t be; he was dead. Five years dead.

It was his younger brother, Ravi Singh. They looked so much alike from just the right angle. Pip didn’t know Ravi but, like everyone else in Little Kilton, she knew of him.

It must be so hard for him, living in this small town that was still so obsessed with its own small-town murder. They couldn’t get away from it, no matter how many years passed; the town and those deaths came hand in hand, forever tied together. The Andie Bell case. Murdered by her boyfriend, Sal Singh. There’d never been a trial, but that was the story, what everyone believed. It was neat, done, put to bed. It’s the boyfriend, it’s always the boyfriend, people would say. So neat and so … so easy. Pip narrowed her eyes. Too easy, maybe.

She turned as far as her neck would allow, watching Ravi as he walked away. He quickened his pace and the car drove on, splitting them apart.

Then he was gone, lost to the night.

But something else stayed behind.

‘Actually,’ Pip said, ‘I think I know what I’m going to do my project on.’

A violent gang that Inspector Howard Whey and Scotland Yard have had many dealings with before. Your partner, Inspector, went undercover to try and expose the gang’s drug network and was gunned down for it. But you’ve always known exactly who it was that shot him. It was Bobby Remy. At least two murders under his belt, and yet he would never face justice for either of them. Neither could ever be proved, and Bobby would continue living his life, free to kill again if the need arose.

‘Unless someone stopped him. Fast-forward to just a couple of months ago when Reginald Remy found out he was dying. He knew he would never live to see justice for his poor wife, and that his eldest son was a very dangerous man. So he hatched a plan with his other son, Ralph. If Bobby would never be caught for the previous two murders he’d committed, they could make damn well sure that he did go down for another murder: the murder of Reginald Remy. Reginald was going to die anyway; they might as well achieve something with his death and have Bobby locked away for life. And pay off the doctor so no one would work it out. Ralph would not only find justice for his mother, but he could put a stop to the affair between his wife and his brother, which he knew about. Ralph and Reginald must have looked into Bobby’s past and made the connection with the dead policeman, and that’s when they approached Inspector Howard Whey and he came in on the plan. You, too, were desperate to see justice for your late partner, and to get this dangerous man off the streets.’

‘But he’s not part of the game, surely?’ Lauren said.

‘You’d think that,’ Pip said, her voice running away with her. ‘But this information has been there all along, one of the very first things we were told. On our invitations it said that there is only one boat a day from the mainland to Joy island, leaving at twelve p.m. sharp. Today, Reginald is murdered between five fifteen p.m. and six thirty p.m. and then shortly after – the same evening, mind you – the inspector shows up to help us solve the murder. But how is he even here? Think about it.’ She leaned across the table. ‘It’s because he was already here, had been here all day since the boat at twelve p.m. Inspector Howard Whey travelled to Joy island before the murder had even happened. Because he knew it was going to happen, because he was part of the plan to set Bobby Remy up for the murder of Reginald. This is why most of the clues have been mounting up to point at Bobby; the inspector has been steering the investigation.’

Bobby Remy did not find and destroy this new will. Ralph and Reginald did this. We know they were in the library together alone earlier this evening. That’s when they ripped it up and put it in the fireplace, and yet they didn’t burn it because they wanted it to be found. Because they were trying to establish a motive for Bobby to murder his father: money, essentially. That argument I heard last night, between Ralph and his father, they weren’t talking about business plans. They were talking about this: their scheme to kill Reginald and set up Bobby. Remember what I overheard Ralph saying –’ she double-checked against her booklet – ‘“I refuse to do that, Father” and “this scheme of yours is ridiculous and will never work” and “won’t get away with this”. Ralph was clearly getting cold feet about this whole plan, about having to stick a knife through his own father’s chest. But Reginald talked him back into it.

‘Look.’ She picked up the final clue they’d found in the pizza box. ‘This note from RR. Some of you thought Bobby wrote this to Lizzie, about meeting up behind Ralph’s back. You might think that Bobby wrote this intentionally to give himself an alibi so he could claim he was with Lizzie at the time of the murder. But Bobby did not write this note. He is not the RR here. This note –’ she brandished it – ‘was written by Reginald Remy to his son, Ralph. Tonight …’ she read from the note. ‘You promised me … he does not deserve our sympathy. Reginald was making sure that Ralph did not have second thoughts again. And if you don’t believe me,’ she said, ‘just look at the handwriting. The font. We have 100% confirmed that Bobby wrote the other RR note to the cook about the carrot cake. Look at it: that one is printed with a different handwriting font to this one. Because they were written by two different people. And the handwriting in this note –’ she waved it again – ‘matches the writing on our original invitations by Reginald. And his cheque book. The truth is, Reginald organized this whole weekend to orchestrate his own murder and set up his son Bobby, with the help of Ralph – who inflicted the fatal stab wound on instruction – and the inspector, both of whom had their own scores to settle with Bobby. Robert “Bobby” Remy is a murderer, but he’s not our murderer. Our murder was carried out by three conspirators: Ralph Remy, Reginald Remy himself and Inspector Howard Whey.’