Over My Dead Body

by Maz Evans

Genres: General Fiction; Crime Fiction

Synopsis

An utterly original, hilarious and heart-warming novel about a murdered woman investigating her own death, perfect for fans of Richard Osman, Janice Hallett and S J Bennett.

When the misanthropic Dr Miriam Price wakes up dead, her day has only just started to go wrong.

With everyone mistakenly thinking she killed herself, she's condemned to half a century in Limbo as a 'Death By Misadventure' - unless she can prove that she was murdered. Unable to communicate with anyone living, Miriam's investigative options look decidedly limited.

But she soon realises that Winnie, her elderly next-door neighbour - and mortal enemy - can see, hear and talk to her. The good news for Miriam is that the dying can interact with the dead. The bad news for Winnie is that if she can see Miriam, she hasn't got long to live. Now this unlikely detective duo must work together to solve Miriam's murder - and maybe avert Winnie's death - before time runs out for them both. And before they kill each other first...

Praise for Maz Evans:

'Wildly hilarious' The Guardian
'Epically clever'' Kiran Millwood Hargrave
'Simultaneously hilarious and heart-breaking' Daily Record

(P) 2023 Headline Publishing Group Ltd

Release date: August 3, 2023

Publisher: Headline

Print pages: 352

Sample

Never say sorry.

It’s a simple mantra and one that has served me well. It has everything you need from a guiding philosophy: it’s pithy, it’s achievable and it sounds good in Latin:

Numquam deprecaris.

My mother believed that women’s proclivity for apology robs us of our power. ‘Sorry is a meaningless transaction from the unimaginative to the undeserving,’ she insisted. ‘If you really care, send a hamper.’

I’m inclined to agree. And in forty-four years, I have never felt compelled to issue either.

But this week everyone has wanted me to say sorry.

On Monday, I never showed up to look after my brother’s kids so he could go to astral-projection meditation. Christian was as furious as his self-imposed Zen ever allows. But just wait and see the out-of-body experience I have in store this week, brother mine.

On Tuesday, my elderly neighbour received an anonymous envelope of glitter that exploded all over her hall carpet. What is the world coming to? Bloody Royal Mail – I posted that last Thursday. You deserve every particle of Hoover-averse misery, Winnie Campbell. It’ll be a cold day in hell before you get an apology. And the forecast here is toasty.

On Wednesday, I didn’t turn up for a drink with my best (by virtue of being my only remaining) friend, Jane. Last time we met, we fought, but she didn’t expect an apology. We’ve known each other for over thirty years – she understands the drill. Jane sat there for an hour nursing a flat Prosecco before going home. She’s used to me letting her down. But I can honestly promise you this time, Janey, that it will never happen again.

In truth, I probably should apologise to my husband, Nav. Most days, actually. But especially today. It’s now Saturday and here he comes, wending his way through the unflatteringly few cameras that have turned out for me. He’s having a bad day, although a distressing phone call is standard procedure for Nav.

It’s just usually from me.

Nav ignores the journalist demanding a comment. You’ve probably seen the news? Dr Miriam Price – the brilliant, but troubled A&E consultant who was reported missing yesterday? Thoughts of abduction were quickly dismissed. Everyone knew that any sane kidnapper would have returned her with an apology note within the hour – Dr Price is an infamous virago. All the best of us are.

The next best theory was that she was AWOL on a drinking binge – it wouldn’t be the first time. But not this time. The journos aren’t going to get their picture. The public won’t get their happy ending.

But they are all about to get one helluva story.

Because I’m one of only two people who knows exactly where Dr Miriam Price has been since she was last seen eight days ago:

She’s been here.

Inside my flat.

I watch from the window as Nav rips through the police tape and charges through the front door of the block. I can hear the concierge urging him to sign the visitors’ book. I know Nav will be tempted. He’s a stickler for doing the right thing – it’s one of the many reasons our marriage made no sense.

But my husband charges straight up the stairs to No. 7, the flat he has known these past twenty years. A police officer tries to hold him back, but Nav’s having none of it. I’ve not vexed him this much since . . . Christ . . . It’s been literally days. He pushes on through the flat, ignoring the entreaties of those inside to stay away. He doesn’t have their masks and soon regrets it – it’s a warm April and even my sense of smell has been objecting.

Nav staggers his way around the flat, panic confusing his internal compass and turning the familiar flat into alien terrain. But eventually he finds his way to the front room. And now he stops.

Because there, sprawled on the floor, is Miriam Price’s corpse.

His knees buckle and a police officer catches him. It’s an uncharacteristically dramatic gesture from my husband – I’ll take it as a compliment.

A sheet is hastily thrown over the cadaver’s bloating face. I’ve been looking at it a lot these past few days. Feels strange to know I’ll never see it again.

Clichéd overdose accoutrements litter the room – empty vodka bottles, discarded pill pots, an incomprehensible note. But it’s all for show. Miriam Price didn’t kill herself.

She was murdered.

I should know.

I was here.

Nav is being offered some tea, but he’s going to need something a lot stronger than that. I know I do. It’s been over a week since my last drink. And for the first time it really was my last.

Keeping up, are you? It’s a lot to take in. I’ve struggled and I’m usually the smartest person in the room. Indeed, the one time I was outsmarted has brought us here. To a seaside flat in sleepy Westmouth. Where I’m watching a familiar body being bundled into a bag. A body I never respected. A body I never particularly liked. Yet a body I already value more in its loss than I ever did in its life.

My body.

So while it’s regrettable that I’ve inconvenienced my nearest and dearest – in truth, it’s not been a great week for me either.

Numquam deprecaris.

Which reminds me . . . I should probably introduce myself.

Hi.

I’m Dr Miriam Price.

Nice to nearly have met you.

It is Monday 14 September, the day of my memorial service. It’s been nearly five months since my body was discovered, making today a stellar highlight in my diminished social calendar. Since April, all I’ve done is wander around in clueless frustration with no sense of my ultimate destination. Death, it appears, is a perpetual IKEA. If there’s a heaven, it doesn’t look like I made it. If there’s a hell, I don’t appear to have left it.

Dying as I did at the height of lockdown, close family alone were allowed to my actual funeral. Only Nav and Christian were present at the crematorium that day, both studiously ignoring my one wish for the disposal of my mortal remains. Yes, they were challenging times. But I still feel a bit more effort could have been made to source a bagpiper who knew ‘Shaddap You Face’.

Thus far, 2020 has been almost unrelentingly grim. Covid. Trump. Home-baked sourdough. I became undeniably middle-aged. And then I was murdered. Oh yes – 2020: the year I died twice.

Midlife creeps up and grabs you like a co-worker at a nineties office party. For me it arrived in January at a cervical screening – a phrase, incidentally, that always calls open-air cinema to mind. Last time, I was asked if there were any chance I could be pregnant. This time, I was asked if I had been through the menopause. Boom! That was it! My youth killed off in the stroke of a keyboard! And that maladroit nurse practitioner mined for the neck of my womb as though seeking a missing sock in the tumble dryer.

Death has been much the same. One minute I am as vital as a corkscrew, the next – gone! Vanished! Poof! Nothing! Rather like middle age; at first I embraced the anonymity, delighting in conversations no one knew I could hear and being places no one expected me to be. But, as the weeks have worn on, I find myself bored to the point of psychosis. It got so bad, I even visited the Tate Modern. My interactions with other humans in life largely ranged from insufficient to intolerable. But at least they passed the time.

I walk up the steps to St John’s Church, slipping in through the partially open door. Of all the inconveniences the past few months have inflicted, the fact that I still require an open door to enter or exit a room is one of the more infuriating. I expected no one to see, hear or touch me – I’m a woman in her forties after all. But nor can my ethereal self dissolve through solid matter – a joy I discovered early on during a dark night of the soul trapped within the Stygian confines of a Tesco Metro.

I step inside St John’s and involuntarily shudder. Nothing good ever happened to me in a church. I was baptised, a bride, buried my bestie and now – a burnt offering. But I’m looking forward to seeing the mourning masses. When my friend Dan died last year, it was standing room only. Mum always insisted that achievements outlive people.

‘It’s called the human race,’ she preached. ‘So win it.’

I certainly made the podium, even in my curtailed life. As objective as I can be about it, I was an extraordinary doctor. In this region alone, I’ve saved hundreds of lives, many of whom seemed beyond the point of salvation. So no doubt this joint will be packed to the rafters with grateful patients and their families . . .

Oh.

Mum also said that ‘gratitude has a short memory’.

A dozen people, tops, are swamped in the relative grandeur of the region’s biggest place of Christian worship. I drew a bigger crowd to my one-woman UCL med-student revue, Undoctored – even after the Freudian philistines at Pi Magazine declared in their one-star review that ‘. . . Price has all the natural charm of a GP’s receptionist’.

A book of condolence has been optimistically placed for people to sign. Frankly, with this crowd, a landscape Post-it Note would have sufficed. I look at the sole page of inscriptions. A few of my med students have dutifully signed in (You were an inspiration – Lexie M; You changed my life – Lottie P; Your work lives on – Maya S). I never could remember med students’ names – I was busy and they were numerous. Indeed, I found numbers worked just as effectively – I can see the corresponding No. 2, No. 1 and No. 3 chatting to one side.

Sitting a legally enforceable distance away is Paul, who has never been a friend exactly, but has variously been my colleague, my tenant and my personal pharmacist. I note he has signed the book with his customarily antiquated idiocy.

Loved our chats and your legs. Rest in peace, Mim – Ivor Biggun

Paul always has been an insufferable creep – I only tolerated him because he had his uses. Others were less forgiving, which is how he now finds himself suspended from Westmouth General, pending a sexual-harassment tribunal brought by at least one of the numbered med students sitting on the opposite side of the church.

I shudder as I catch a beady pair of eyes at the back. My evil neighbour Winnie lurks there, staring at the spot in which I happen to be standing. Even now she looks unjustifiably judgemental, just like the time I put raw prawns in her guttering. I stick my tongue out at her, the termagant. She even manages to roll her eyes right on cue – the woman is an irredeemable hag.

The A-list mourners have already taken their seats. Both my parents are dead, sparing them the emotional attrition so cruelly reserved for those who outlive their children. Nav is duly front and centre and next to him is Jane. They deserve their front-row seats. We’ve all been friends since childhood and they look properly upset – good show, both. Jane sobs quietly and Nav puts an awkward hand on her back. She collapses against him and he looks mortified. His wife’s funeral is no place for a public display of raw emotion. Nav has yet to find anywhere that is.

My husband stares at the easel-sized photo of me placed next to my ashes. It’s a decent snap from about eight years ago. It captures my best assets from back in the day: tousled black hair, big blue Manga-doll eyes, lips that proffered sin and a body that promised a receipt. I was pretty cute. Not that I thought so at the time, of course. Women only ever appreciate themselves in the past.

My brother Christian noisily bundles into the church with his husband and kids. Cannoning in like a hurricane is his stepson Jake, who runs his nine-year-old butt straight up the aisle and immediately performs the Floss in front of my ashes. He’s great fun – he liked me, anyway, and we always had a laugh. I’ll miss hanging out with the little tyke.

‘Jake!’ hisses Christian.

‘Leave him – he’s fine,’ whispers his other dad, Neil, oblivious to the horrified stares of the diminutive congregation.

A lot of people are really judgemental about my nephew’s behaviour. And they’re quite right – he’s an absolute ratbag. Funny as hell, though. Christian storms up and grabs Jake, smiling awkwardly at the small congregation before bustling his stepson into the pew, whose inapposite little performance is instantly rewarded with a Kinder Egg from Neil.

‘Why are you giving him that?’ Christian whispers. ‘All that unrefined sugar . . .’

‘Path of least resistance,’ snaps Neil.

‘Motorway, more like,’ Christian sighs.

The hushed words continue between Christian and Neil. There are often hushed words between Christian and Neil where Jake is concerned. Often not that hushed.

My brother’s life has somehow never quite been cleared for take-off. I’m unsure why. Chris was smart enough at school, but it all fell apart in his teens, having to resit his A levels, only to drop out of law school when he finally got there. Then he did quite well in charity work in London before marrying liquid-income-something-in-tech Neil seven years ago. He inexplicably quit his job and moved back to Westmouth last year and is now a stay-at-home dad to their brood – an excellent one, I must say.

Christian and Neil try to settle their two newest arrivals, their little toddler twins in their buggies. Much to Christian’s chagrin, I always referred to them as Thing 1 and Thing 2. I’m dreadful with names at the best of times, but especially when said nomenclatures are some appropriated Navajo nonsense. Yanaha is the girl, who is presently sitting in her pram, munching on a wholemeal rice cake. Apparently, her name means ‘brave’. Just as well. The poor love is going to have to be with that name at Westmouth Primary, whose Latin motto roughly translates as Everyone’s Called Kyle.

Their son Atsi (meaning ‘eagle’) is dipping his carrot in some humous. At their Humanist Naming Day, I told Christian after a few champers that ‘Atsi’ sounded like a regulatory body for loss adjusters. I was immediately stripped of the title ‘Guiding Parent’ and forced to surrender the symbolic ‘Flame of Growth’ (Wilko candle) I had just pledged to tend.

While Jake came with Neil in a marital BOGOF, the twins were carried by a surrogate and manufactured from the boys’ semen cocktail and some eggs they acquired on the internet – an ovarian Ocado, if you will. Two embryos successfully implanted themselves et voila! A new family is born. Medicine can facilitate what certain of the religious and much of the right wing won’t allow. It’s one of the many reasons I love it.

‘Oh God – Jake!’ Christian tries to whisper.

They both look to where Jake has escaped the pew and is mounting an expedition up the outside of the pulpit.

‘Dad! Daddy!’ he shouts. ‘Bet you 50p I can hurdle that pot. Look . . .’

God bless you, Jake. I’ll take your bet, son. You need to start putting something aside for your bail.

‘Jake!’ hisses Christian again, pushing his way past Neil. ‘Get! Down! Now!’

All heads turn to Christian. He must be used to heads turning by now. He’s the parental equivalent of Wimbledon.

‘I can make it, I swear!’ Jake insists, getting ready to make his leap. You gotta give it to the kid – he’s a great warm-up act. ‘Count me down, three, two, one . . .’

The vicar’s gentle hand reaches Jake before my brother can. I doubt I’m alone in my relief that my nephew doesn’t immediately dissolve into a pillar of salt.

‘I think we’d better let your aunty have some peace and quiet,’ he says calmly, helping Jake back to the floor with a smile. ‘She’s got a big day ahead.’

Don’t sweat it, Rev. Since you toasted my mortal remains on the borough barbecue five months ago, my diary’s been pretty clear.

I hear the door open again. Let’s see who else bothered to show up . . .

Oh God.

It’s him.

At last.

He’s found me.

For months I’ve felt little. Death has dulled most of my five senses.

But he always did awaken a sixth.

Those who are awash with love will be unaware that it is entirely possible to meander through a life without truly experiencing it. You can have all the job descriptions – daughter, sister, wife, friend – and yet never feel that all-consuming, noxious blend of fear and euphoria. I went forty-three years without it.

And then came Tom.

I walk towards him. Maybe he can sense me like I sense him, like we always sensed each other. Surely we must transcend the trivialities of earthly flesh . . .

But he passes straight through me.

Again.

I shudder as my lover hides in a shadow where no one can see him. It was ever thus for us.

The vicar looks to the front row.

‘Shall we begin?’ he says gently, politely ignoring the yawning absence of a congregation.

Nav and Jane stare blankly at him. They give good grief.

‘Yes,’ my brother gasps tearfully. He’s a mess. It’s hardly surprising, poor sod. I’m the third of his only three family members to have dropped dead somewhat ahead of schedule. When an adult dies, the greatest sympathy quotient is generally reserved for their partner. But, to be blunt, they are the one relation for whom the deceased is somewhat replaceable. New spouses can be sourced. New children, siblings or parents less so. And Chris is two for three. Partners are widow(er)s. Kids are orphans. I’m unaware there’s even a name for someone who has lost a sibling. It’s a grief without portfolio.

Jake reaches into his pocket and gives my brother an at-least-second-hand tissue.

‘Don’t be sad, Dad,’ says Jake.

‘Thank you, baby,’ sniffs Christian, accepting the scrumpled hanky.

‘Aunty Miriam’s soul is wherever her personal belief system wants it to be,’ Jake parrots as Neil grasps Christian’s hand. ‘You told me that. She’s in a better place.’

Guess again, kiddo. But classy gesture. Nicely done, Jakey.

‘Why?’ Christian sobs. ‘Miriam . . . Why would you do this . . . ?’

Wish I could help you, Chris.

But I didn’t do anything, deliberately or otherwise.

I’ll give my killer this much – they did it well. I was way too pissed to know what was going on and their overdose tableau certainly appears to have convinced the authorities. In the days after my body was discovered, I watched the police perfunctorily interview a few people, all of whom happily confirmed their suspicions that I was a career drunkard. Everyone had their hot take. Winnie told them I was ‘possessed’ – says the woman who sprayed ‘Beelzebub’ on my lawn in weedkiller. Paul said that I was ‘high-maintenance’ (so’s a Lamborghini, you prick). Even med student No. 1 diagnosed me as ‘a depressive’. Based on what, love? The three A levels you scraped at Chance of Pregnancy High? The truth is, it’s just easier for everyone concerned to believe that I killed myself.

In fact, my murderer almost convinced me – when I woke up dead, it was my first thought too. But there was one critical oversight. The note. A few scrawled marks on a takeaway carton lid:

My writing. But not my voice. I’d never say that – I didn’t owe anyone anything. And, besides, it’s far too close to an apology.

Numquam deprecaris.

But who on earth would want to kill me?

The service begins. There are mumbled hymns, a few half-hearted prayers and Christian gamely snots his way through a Bible reading. The rest of the time, Nav sits quietly, Jane sniffs loudly, my brother-in-law holds Jake so tightly the boy could breastfeed, while Christian whispers assurances to their fifteen-month-old babies that this is just one interpretation of religion and that other non-existent deities are also available.

Finally, the vicar turns to them with a smile.

‘We commend Miriam Rebecca Price to God’s mercy. The light she shone will burn forever. And so I invite anyone to share their special memories of their special Miriam.’

He stands aside. Bless you, Rev, but you’ll get no joy out of this crowd. I haven’t left many memories you can share in a religious setting . . .

‘I will,’ comes a little, but enthusiastic voice.

It’s Jake.

‘Er, maybe that’s not such a good . . .’ Neil begins, gripping his son closer.

‘I think it’s healthy to let him express himself,’ says Christian, unlocking Jake from his husband’s clutches. ‘Go on, baby. We’d love to hear what you have to say.’

‘Your funeral,’ sighs Neil as Jake happily skips up the aisle to stand by the smiling vicar. Courteously removing a stray mucous strand from his left nostril before speaking, my nephew wipes his finger on his shirt and addresses the congregation.

‘Aunty M was really cool,’ he starts, to the tearful delight of his dad. ‘She wasn’t like a grown-up – she was actually fun. Every birthday she taught me a new big swear. For my ninth birthday, it was c—’

‘Jake!’ Christian interrupts in a loud whisper as Neil snorts. ‘Maybe share a different special memory of Aunty Miriam for everyone?’

Jake scans his little memory bank until something fresh occurs. Can’t think what . . .

‘Okay, so,’ he begins, ‘after Christmas we had to go to this really rubbish restaurant for lunch that didn’t even have colouring because Aunty M and Uncle Nav got married once and then we had to remind them every year on their annimeversary. I didn’t want to go, but Dad said I had to because we didn’t know how many annimeversaries Aunty M and Uncle Nav would have, so we should celebrate every one . . .’

Christian visibly winces. Nav’s lips curl. Neil nearly chokes.

‘Anyway, it was mega boring,’ Jake continues. ‘All the grown-ups just talked about poo-pants Covid – my daddy said it was “just a bloody cold”, my dad said we should all just take more vitamins and we’d be fine, Aunty M told Dad to stick his vitamins up his bottom if he thought that was going to stop a pandademic, Uncle Nav didn’t say very much and I can’t really remember what Aunty Jane said. But I heard Dad say to Daddy she was only invited because she didn’t have a boyfriend to take her out, so I’m not sure it really matters.’

Christian closes his eyes before mouthing a ‘sorry’ to Jane, who smiles that she’s fine.

She isn’t.

‘Anyway, Dad and Aunty M got into an argument and when it was time to go back to my house for afternoon tea – which was really more wine – we had to go in two taxis,’ says Jake, mining his right nostril for any further bounty. ‘I wanted to go with Aunty M, because she was more fun and because I knew that Dad and Daddy would probably have a fight about her like they always did.’

They both have the grace to look a little sheepish. Keep going, Jakey. This material is pure gold . . .

‘So . . . we’re waiting for our taxi, when Aunty M sees this . . . unhoused person – Dad says we can’t call them “homeless” any more because it’s a problematic word, but I think the problem is that they don’t have a house. Anyway, the unhoused person didn’t look very well, so Aunty M had a look at him because she was a doctor. The taxi came and Aunty M was still looking after the man. The driver shouted at her to get in the car and she used the big swear she taught me on my seventh birthday.’

Neil snorts as Christian shakes his head. Pompous arse. (I taught Jake that one when he was five.)

‘Aunty M said something to the unhoused person and helped him to stand up. She told me to get in the taxi and she started to help the unhoused person – I remember! He was called Jeff and he used to drive a lorry – but the taxi driver didn’t want Jeff in his taxi. So Aunty M said something about Jeff’s human rights and something about the taxi driver’s willy and put Jeff in the taxi anyway.’

Christian’s ears prick up. Clearly this is the first time he’s heard this story. Glad you kept your side of the bargain, Jake. Good lad.

‘When we got to my house, Aunty M made me get out as she wanted to take Jeff to the hospital,’ Jake says. ‘But she made me pinky swear I wouldn’t tell anyone and gave me twenty quid and promised me a big bag of Percy Pigs – and not the rubbish vegan ones that Dad only lets me eat at Christmas – if I promised not to tell anyone.’

Christian sighs and the tears start again.

‘Dad was really angry that Aunty M didn’t come for tea – or wine – and said it was typical of her to be so childish. I didn’t tell anyone because breaking a pinky swear is against the law and I really wanted the Percy Pigs and I needed to hide the twenty pounds so I could buy the Nerf gun that Dad says is too violent, even though you can’t actually kill anyone with foam bullets. But now Aunty Miriam is dead so I think it’s allowed. She said that Dad and Daddy would get cross with her for putting me in the taxi with Jeff, because they are hippo crates. But Aunty Miriam was just trying to help Jeff. And she did. He got better and got his house. I ate the Percy Pigs anyway.’

And with a small shrug, Jake runs back up the aisle into his fathe. . .