Gazpacho, Salmorejo, Ajoblanco, Tortilla… So many flavours, mixed with so many interesting facts. Yes, I knew there and then, I definitely found the perfect gift. The title itself made it already difficult to resist: ‘Que Aproveche! How food helped shape Spanish history.’ Felicity would like this one, I had no doubts about it. And I was positive I knew her enough to get this right. But the final nod came in the form of four words from Hildegard:
“Mate, this is brilliant!”
I felt proud of myself at that moment. After all, Hildegard was not well known for being easily impressed, but ultimately, she was very honest. Bluntly, in a way that it’s not common to find amongst people in this country. If she said something, you could be sure that there was no reading between lines, hidden meanings or subliminal messages. She said it as it was, black and white. But she was not rude. It’s a thin line between honesty and rudeness, and she used to say that the secret was finding the reason to give an honest opinion. Sometimes, it would not make a difference, and it would be more damaging than helping. And I couldn't agree more.
In fact, this was one of the many things I learned with Hildegard since we started working together. It’s been a good three years since our first case together, on a cold and sunny winter, when I had just arrived in Brighton. Back then, I was terrified of ending up at the famous seaside resort, and my idea was not to spend more than six months here, but I was also not sure where I wanted to go. That winter I learned that life is what happens while you are making plans.
Right before coming to Brighton, I studied for six months to become a detective. I made good friends in the academy, people who I still kept in touch to this day. At the end of our training, we each got deployed somewhere for some practical training as part of a mandatory internship. I ended up working at Sussex Police at John Street, under the supervision of then Lead Detective Stephen Pritchard, who is now head of Public Relations for Sussex Police, a job that suited him much more than the one of detective. We kept in touch, and he had been a big help in other cases we investigated.
Back then I also met Felicity Browne-Porter, who was then some sort of admin assistant for the department. She had previously worked as lead detective, and Hildegard started her career working under Felicity. They remained good friends for years, and after Steve left, Felicity assumed the post of Lead Detective temporarily, which was very beneficial for Hildegard and me. She had been looking forward to her retirement, which had to be postponed for a year or so due to some issues related to finding a new Lead for the department. That day had now finally arrived, and the book was a gift for her leaving celebration. She was moving to Spain, a lifelong dream she shared with me on the first day we met. To be honest, she never really hid this from anybody, which is why the book was the perfect gift. And I would not be surprised if other gifts were Spanish themed.
Hildegard and I decided to get a gift together. It was Jill, Hildegard’s wife, who suggested it. As we worked together and had that connection with Felicity, it would make sense. Deep down, I think Jill was looking for an excuse to get a gift of her own. She and Hildegard had been together for more than thirty years, and although I could not think of two people more perfect for each other, I could also appreciate how different they were. In the end, I think they complimented one another - what one lacked, the other had it, ready to offer.
Helga Hildegard was probably the most famous detective in Britain - and considered by many as the best detective in the country, a title she wore with pride, without being obnoxious about it. She saw it as a fact, which came as a result of years of good work. She was in her early to mid fifties, though her actual age was a mystery not many people cracked. Jill knew, but she often said that disclosing this would be grounds for divorce. Her hair was somewhere between silver, pearl and white, depending on how the light bounced off it, and it was often ruffled, almost as if she washed it and did not dry it with a towel, but shook her hair vigorously to get the excess water out. She wore thick indigo blue glasses, her make-up was very natural, and she was definitely a fan of pantsuits. I’ve seen her wear a dress in the summer once, but it was not a common piece of clothing in her closet. In spite of that, she was a fan of unusual colour combinations which would not necessarily work on others, but her extrovert personality made it work for her. That woman knew how to deliver a speech and command a room, and she had a habit of calling everyone ‘mate.’
Her eyes were a beautiful shade of grey, which matched perfectly with her hair colour, and they often shone bright when she had an idea. Hildegard worked for many years in the Sussex Police, and became a private investigator when she left the force. She was very fair, and she always insisted that, when she took on a case, she would work for the truth, no matter who that would affect - even if it was detrimental to whoever hired her. She was a big fan of honesty, even the direct, blunt, raw kind, which some people might perceive as a form of rudeness. She wasn’t one to beat around the bushes. She ‘adopted me’ - professionally speaking - when I first came to Brighton and I like to think that we worked well together. She often complimented me on my ability to see things beyond what was in front of the eyes, although I’m not sure I ever fully understood what she meant by this.
We paid for the book and left, on our way to her office, located a few hundred metres away from Brighton Station. It was not a long walk from the bookstore, so we decided to skip the bus and enjoy the stroll. It was the first week of September, and the summer had come late into this part of the world, so the early afternoon sun of that Friday was bringing us a reminder that fall was still a few weeks ahead. It was not a hot day, but also not cold, with temperature between the high teens and the low twenties.
Ms Hughes, Hildegard’s receptionist, greeted us with her almost robotic mannerism, and told us there were no messages or correspondences. We ran a few errands, worked on some admin tasks and left not long after, to make it on time for the three PM time in the invitation of the leaving celebration. I left my bag in the office, as it would be on my way back home later. Hildegard made a comment about not leaving the purchase of the gift so late next time, but I could not imagine when we would have another retirement party so soon.
We were the first ones to arrive at the venue, a little pub called the Wizard Arms. The pub was located around pool valley, a well known coach station which had been closed for a few years since a fire destroyed a hotel in the area. The first floor was open to the public, and the second floor had been reserved by Felicity. It opened up on its side to an external area, with high tables and equally high stools. It was not possible to see the sea from there, but we could hear the seagulls and the sound of the traffic around the pier. Felicity greeted us with enthusiasm, and a few words in a thick accented Spanish.
“Hola, mis amores! Que tal? That’s all I could learn so far, but I have this app where I can practise every day, so in a month I will be fluent! How are you two? Where is Jill?”
Felicity was a black woman in her late sixties. Her hair was thick, curly and white, which contrasted with her dark skin. She had a strong London accent, and wore thick turtle shell glasses that made her dark brown eyes look bigger than they actually were. Hildegard engaged in a conversation with her, whilst I got ourselves some glasses of rose wine.
“Jill is stuck at work. She should be here around five.”
“I see. There are more people coming later, love. I know, it’s Friday, but most people work until at least four today. It will give us time to have a proper catch up before things get a bit hectic.”
“We got you a little gift, but I won’t take the credit. This one here found it.”
They were both looking at me. I smiled once again with a certain pride, after all I was enjoying the attention from two people I admired so much. I handed Felicity the package, she opened and her eyes filled with tears.
“This is everything! I will miss you two, but my god! I can’t wait to get to Marbella, the house is looking so good. Martha is there getting things in order, but I told her that she can go back to her man as soon as I arrive. This is my time, I love my kids but it’s my time to enjoy retirement and the Spanish sun.”
“And maybe a Spanish muchacho?”
I said it before I could think, a habit that often made both women laugh. This time was not different, and Felicity seemed interested in the idea.
“You know, there’s been almost eight years since Rich passed away. I don’t think he would mind me looking at some of the guapos…”
We all laughed. Now, with a glass of rose wine in our hands, it was time for the news update - and nobody knew more about the current gossip than Felicity. People in the station used to call her FBP news, in a reference to the BBC news channel. Hildegard was particularly interested in one piece of information, and did not beat around the bush.
“So, who is the new lead detective? Anyone we know? And maybe most important: is he trouble?”
“Well, I don’t know much about him. His name is Philip something, I can’t remember the last name now, but it’s not a common, English name. I think it’s eastern european. He hasn’t been in the police for long, so there are not many rumours about. I’ve met him shortly, and he seems nice. Definitely queer. Maybe a tad too serious, with the rules and stuff. I remember thinking to myself: that man needs to shag!”
We almost fell on the floor laughing. We knew each other fairly well, but moments like this still made us laugh. And we laughed many times that afternoon, telling stories, remembering people and situations, and gossiping about the people working at the station. She did not mean anyone any harm, and if it was a sensitive or serious issue, she would be very discreet about it. Her gossip was always harmless, and relatively well known by everyone. That afternoon was a reminder that she would leave a big hole in our lives when she left, but she was also keen on making us promise to go visit her as soon as possible.
Jill joined us a bit later, as did many people who were friends, colleagues and coworkers. Steve Pritchard passed by to give Felicity a hug. He saw me from far away and said something like ‘nice to see you, Kiddo’, but he didn’t stay for too long, so we did not have a chance to catch up properly. The three of us - Hildegard, Jill and myself - left together around half past six. Jill went home, and Hildegard and I went to the office. I wanted to get my bag before going home, and Hildegard had to pick up some things for the weekend. We arrived at the office about twenty minutes later. Ms Hughes was already gone, so the reception area was empty. There was a pile of correspondence on top of her desk, so I picked it up and brought it to the office. Amongst them, there were sealed letters, utility bills, but the thing that caught my attention was a postcard.
It showed a picture of the pier in front, and in the back, the text had been typed in a computer and printed directly on the card. It was addressed to Hildegard’s office and on her name, and the text was relatively short. I thought it best not to read it, as it could be something personal to her. She took it, and whilst she read it, her face turned serious, focused, as if she was trying to solve a maths problem. She looked at me and asked:
“Where did you get this?”
“It was in that pile, with the rest of the post. Why, what is it?”
“Read it.”
I took the postcard and read the words quickly, trying to understand why my friend was so startled by them.
‘My dear Mrs Hildegard,
I decided to start with you - after all, I have to start somewhere. You are my number one. Well, not you, yourself. I admire you, you have a purpose in life. But not everybody does - at the end of the day, I am only doing nature’s work. Being alive is a privilege, and some people take that for granted. Well, not anyone. Not on my watch. You understand me, don’t you? Deep down, I know you do.
Look out for my postcard, addressed to the resident of BN1 1HH. I’ll try to make it neat.
Yours, truly,
The messenger.’
I looked back at Hildegard. Her eyes shone, in a way I’ve never seen it shine before.
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