by Alex Pavesi
‘Who is he?’ she asked.
‘That’s our host, Harry Trainer. The playwright. Today is his birthday.’
She knelt down to lift the jacket and saw underneath it the face of a man in his late thirties; a pale, unmarked face ringed with a neat beard and sideburns. He was looking slightly to the left, with his whole head tilted that way; the back of his skull had been beaten in and now sat against the ground at a slant. A pool of thick blood gave him a dark, bitter halo. She put a finger and thumb on either side of his forehead and tried tilting it in both directions, noting the uneven way it rolled over the tiles.
Surrounding the body was a wide pattern of bloodstains.
‘You found him like this?’
‘We found him lying on his front. The wound at the back of his head was unbearable, so we rolled him onto his back. We checked his pulse. Then we took his jacket off to cover him. But everything else is untouched.’
None of his clothes were undone. ‘He doesn’t look like somebody about to use the toilet.’
‘No. The murderer must have struck quickly.’
‘Unless he’d just finished.’ She stood up. ‘Poor Harry.’
‘I think that’s everything,’ said Griff, moving towards the door.
Helen was wavering on whether to leave it there, or to ask him more questions. Her instinct was to indulge his impatience, but she also knew that if she could absorb as many details as possible now it might help her later when the witnesses themselves had grown hazy. ‘So this was his birthday party?’
Griff sighed. ‘A small gathering. He wasn’t an easy man to get along with, but a few of us liked him.’
‘May I ask which one of you discovered the body?’
‘All of us, I suppose. Harry had excused himself. At some point we realized he’d been gone quite a long time. We knocked and there was no reply, so I broke open the door.’
She turned round and examined the lock. It was a simple bolt. A metal bracket that was nailed to the doorframe had been forced out of the wood by about an inch; it now hung precariously from the ends of its two nails, like something walking on stilts.
‘So all five of you were here when the body was discovered?’
‘Yes.’ He shrugged, as if he hadn’t given it much thought. ‘I believe so.’
‘But there were no restaurant staff present?’
‘No. We’d only just arrived. I think some food was due to be served later, but while people were coming in they’d just left us alone with a lot of wine.’
She stepped over to the window. At first glance it seemed like it overlooked a yard hidden behind the street, but in fact it was set into the side of the building and opened onto the flat roof of the neighbouring shop.
‘If the door was locked from the inside, the killer must have left through the window.’
‘Yes, and come in that way, too.’
She pictured the culprit waiting on the rooftop, in full view of the buildings opposite; peeking into the loo whenever they heard a sound from inside.
Griff went on: ‘Harry had his share of detractors, like I said. I don’t know who else he invited to this gathering, but lots of people must have known about it. It would have been easy enough for one of them to climb up onto that roof and lie in wait for him. He’d have to use the toilet eventually.’
She thought the image was slightly absurd. ‘But you didn’t see anyone?’
‘I’m afraid not.’
She inspected the window. Most of the glass was gone from it and the sharp fragments covered the sill and the floor below. It had been smashed in from the outside. With her handkerchief she picked out a triangle of glass that was still in the frame: there was blood on the tip. ‘Somebody cut themselves.’
‘Be careful,’ he said.
She lowered her head and peered outside. There was a rusty-looking hammer at the other side of the roof, but she felt that it was beyond her remit to climb outside and retrieve it. A black cat sat next to it, licking its paws, its fur darkened with ash. The day was warm and the sky above the rooftops was covered with wispy black clouds.
‘I wonder if he suffered much?’
Griff became agitated. ‘This conversation is getting too morbid. Harry would want us to be celebrating his life, not picturing his death.’
‘I’m sorry,’ said Helen. She had little interaction with men in her day-to-day life, and it made her anxious when their moods shifted like this, though she supposed that she had spoken insensitively. She took a last look around the room, trying to take in all the details. The cramped space was beginning to smell of smoke. ‘Do you think we should block that window? All of this will be covered in ash before long.’
‘I know just the thing,’ said Griff. He left and returned with two large rectangular wine lists: they slotted perfectly into the frame and the few lingering fragments of glass held them in place.
She smiled demurely. ‘Thank you for all of your help – Griff, isn’t it?’
‘Please. Harry was my friend; if there’s anything I can do to help,’ and they shook hands again. He squeezed her fingers as he let go. ‘And now that I’ve transferred all of that knowledge to somebody else’s brain, I can finally have a drink.’
When Helen emerged from the toilet with Griff, she found Andrew Carter waiting outside. ‘My sister is feeling faint, can you help her?’
‘Of course,’ she said. It was a common occurrence at school. He led her to a table where Vanessa Carter was sitting; Helen tilted her forward, then poured her a glass of water.
Andrew watched her work. ‘She’s not normally like this, you know.’
Helen wasn’t used to people justifying themselves to her. She found it embarrassing. ‘That’s quite all right, really, it’s a perfectly reasonable reaction.’
‘But then this isn’t a normal crime, as you’ve probably noticed.’
Helen sensed that he wanted to tell her something. ‘How do you mean?’
‘Did the crime scene strike you as unusual?’
She tried to look thoughtful. ‘It seems the killer came in through the window. But it’s hard to imagine how they could have taken Harry by surprise, that way.’
‘In other words,’ Andrew was nodding with an enthusiasm he tried to portray as weary resignation, ‘the crime is impossible.’
‘Or they could have reached through the window and hit him with something.’
Andrew gripped the table, giving his slightly wild appearance its full effect: ‘There is something we must tell you, but until you’d acknowledged the impossibility of the crime we didn’t think we’d be believed.’
Helen didn’t know how to react to that; she laughed nervously. ‘I will try,’ she said.
‘What Griff won’t have told you,’ said Andrew, a quick look of contempt passing over his face, ‘is that just before it happened there was a terrible, inhuman wail. It was quiet, but lasted almost a minute. The sound was identical to the screech of a giant hound.’
Helen tried to disguise her interest. ‘When was that exactly? Just before it happened, you said. But before what?’
‘About three minutes before we all noticed his absence. Only Vanessa and I heard it.’
Vanessa raised her head from her knees; colour had returned to her face. ‘I saw it,’ she said; she seemed to be speaking earnestly. ‘It came from the fire. I was at the window, watching the first flames take hold, and suddenly it just jumped out: a giant black dog, indistinct and phosphorescent, as if it was made of smoke.’ Her blue eyes were wide. ‘Something ungodly has happened here today.’
Helen spoke in a very neutral tone. ‘You think he was killed by a spirit?’
When she was at school, ghosts and spirits had formed a sort of currency with which the girls could buy each other’s interest; they were rumoured to be everywhere. But Helen had never seen anything herself, just occasional shapes in the darkness, and of course the Sisters prowling the dim corridors. And even at her most credulous she’d never heard of a ghost doi
ng something as direct as what they seemed to be suggesting: beating a man to death with a hammer.
‘No,’ said Vanessa. ‘Most likely he was killed by a human hand, but one directed and assisted by something malign. The devil himself, perhaps.’
‘Harry,’ said Andrew, ‘was a thoughtful man. I’m in the theatre myself. We would talk about the craft for hours at a time; I considered him a friend. But there was an immorality to the rest of his life that I could not abide. It was all about drink and women. Even my sister wasn’t safe from it.’
Vanessa looked at the floor, ashamed. ‘He was very charming when I first met him. I was young, and he was dazzling.’
‘What we believe to have happened,’ Andrew continued, ‘is that the fire down the road briefly became a doorway to hell, and the devil saw a chance to take back one of his own.’
Helen nodded, insincerely. She let a period of time pass, then dared to ask a question. ‘You mentioned women. Has there been a woman in his life recently?’
Andrew shook his head. He looked at Vanessa; she shrugged. ‘Not that we know of.’
‘What about her? She’s here alone.’ Discreetly, Helen indicated the other guest, whom she hadn’t yet talked to. The timid woman in the green dress, still standing against the wall.
‘We don’t know her,’ said Andrew.
‘Was she with you when you found the body?’
‘Yes, she was,’ he said. ‘At least, I think she was.’
Helen moved a table in front of the toilet door and brought a chair over to it. She poured herself a glass of wine and sat down, then closed her eyes. She tried to picture the different ways the crime could in theory have been committed, in case Mr Lau asked for her impressions later. The sound of soft voices almost lulled her to sleep.
She opened her eyes.
Wendy was still hovering at the opposite side of the room: the shy woman in the green dress. Helen caught her attention and waved her over.
Wendy arrived at the table, smiling gratefully. ‘It’s hard to be at a party and not know anyone.’
Helen smiled back. ‘Should this still be considered a party with everything that’s happened?’
Wendy gave no answer. ‘Well, I can imagine it’s even harder with the responsibility you’ve been given. Keeping order, when everything outside is chaos.’
‘I’m Helen,’ she offered her hand.
‘Wendy. Pleased to meet you. I’ve been wondering if I ought to come over for the last twenty minutes or so.’
‘I’m glad you did. How do you know these people?’
‘Oh, I’m an actor.’ She looked embarrassed. ‘Well, as a hobby really. We’re all actors, I think. The thing is, I don’t really know any of this lot, I just knew Harry.’
Helen sat up straight, interested to learn that she wasn’t the only one isolated here. Things had moved so quickly, it hadn’t occurred to her that this small group were just the first few people at a party – thrown together by punctuality – and might not all know each other. ‘Please, do sit down.’
Wendy pulled up a chair and joined her in a glass of wine. ‘I take it you don’t normally play detective?’
Both women had been here before, sitting at the edges of a gathering and seeking solidarity with their fellow introverts. The feeling was comforting and familiar, and Helen laughed at the question.
‘No, I’m a teacher.’
‘Oh, that must be nice.’
She thought about saying no, that it was often hellish and that the grid of girls seated in front of her every day, with their precocious attitudes and withering observations, felt like the bars of her cage. But she was no more capable of expressing any such thing than she was suited to the profession itself.
‘Yes,’ she replied. ‘It can be very rewarding.’
‘Listen, I might as well tell you this, though I haven’t told anyone else.’ Wendy took her hand and spoke in a strong whisper. ‘Harry and I were engaged to be married.’
She held up a finger with an ill-fitting ring looped around the base, a minimal silver band. It was smeared with condensation and sweat. ‘It’s too large, I know. It belonged to his mother. She was a much bigger woman than me. But men don’t understand those things, do they?’ She half smiled, defeated by the implausibility of her own words. ‘Well, you’re the first person I’ve told.’
Helen looked at Wendy with a kind of awe, her mind brimming with questions and clichés. ‘I’m so sorry for your loss.’
‘Oh, that.’ Wendy frowned. ‘It’s a little more complicated than that, I have to say.’
Helen said nothing.
‘I’m not from London, you see. I met Harry when he was in Manchester for a play, about two and a half months ago. It was a sort of whirlwind romance; it only lasted a fortnight. Then we got engaged. This was to be the glorious occasion where we told everyone. All of his friends, at least. But it seems I got here too late.’
‘Yes, I should say so. You have my condolences.’
‘Thank you.’ Wendy spoke tentatively, unsure of her own response. ‘I know it’s awful, I should be a shivering wreck. The thing is, it was all so quick I’ve been having second thoughts for the whole two months since we made the engagement. That’s four times the time spent on love spent on doubt. Do you understand? Then whenever I told people about the engagement, it seemed every one of them had a horror story about Harry Trainer. I’ve been so anxious; it’s just been killing me. I was looking for a way out. So when they found the body, some small part of me was glad. Isn’t that awful?’
Helen gave her a look that was comforting but held neither approval nor disapproval. ‘It’s not really for me to judge.’
‘I’ve just been telling this lot that I’m a friend of his from up north. I haven’t said anything about the engagement.’
‘Well, thank you for telling me. Do you feel all right?’
Wendy’s small nervous mouth creased in concentration. ‘Yes. It was hard, when they found him. But also a relief. I’m afraid I can’t get past the relief. I was the last one here. I arrived after Harry had disappeared to the powder room, but before his body had been discovered. So I haven’t even seen him today. I’ve mostly forgotten what he looked like, to be honest.’
‘Then you haven’t seen the body?’
‘Oh gosh, no. I couldn’t bear it.’
‘May I ask, did you hear anything before the body was discovered?’
‘Of course,’ said Wendy. ‘The sound of smashing glass. Lots of it. I think I was the only one that heard it, though, because nobody else reacted. But then they were all standing by the window, so they might have thought it came from outside.’
‘They were all over by the window?’
‘That’s right. I thought I’d got the wrong room at first, because I didn’t see Harry. I was standing in the doorway and they were looking at something outside. The fire, I assume. So none of them saw me. I wondered whether to knock or just to retreat. And that’s when I heard the glass smashing. From where I stood I could tell it was coming from the lavatory. Anyway, that man Griff must have sensed something, because he turned around. I told him I was looking for Harry, and he invited me in. That got them talking about how Harry had been a long time, and where had he got to, and so on. Just a minute after that they were breaking down the door.’
‘And were all of them there, by the window? All four of them?’
Wendy looked around the room. ‘Yes,’ she said. ‘I think they were.’
Another fifteen minutes had passed and the police were still absent. The initial comfort Helen had felt with Wendy had faded, and for the last few minutes an awkward pause had stretched out between the two of them like a kitten luxuriating before a fire: the inevitable heat death of two introverts in conversation.
An idea seemed to occur to Wendy; she stood up and said in a sweet, dignified voice: ‘I need to use the lavatory. Is that all right?’
Helen was taken aback by this; someone her own age was treating her like a te
acher. ‘Yes, of course,’ she stammered. ‘Please do.’
Wendy’s smile was at a slant. ‘Well, should I go downstairs and use the one there, or should I make do with the men’s?’
Helen turned and looked at the nondescript door in the wall beside her, a dead body behind it. A letter ‘M’ was pinned to the middle. ‘Where is the women’s toilet?’
‘That is the women’s toilet,’ said Wendy. ‘The men’s is out in the corridor.’
Helen looked again and saw that the ‘M’ wasn’t quite vertical. It was pinned insecurely by a nail through its centre. She reached up and turned it easily until it formed a perfect upper-case ‘W’. It was clear from the faded patches on the wood that this was its normal position.
Harry Trainer had been killed in the women’s toilet.
Wendy was still standing there. ‘Use the gentlemen’s, please,’ said Helen. Wendy thanked her and vanished.
The women’s toilet, thought Helen, her mind whirling with ideas.
The image Griff had put into her head – of someone climbing onto the roof next door and lying in wait for hours, because Harry would have to use the toilet eventually – had seemed slightly absurd before; but if he’d been killed in the women’s lavatory then it simply wasn’t credible. Why would he ever need to use the women’s toilet? That left two options: someone had either tampered with the sign, or they had somehow compelled him to go in there. Both required the participation of somebody in this room.
More time passed as Helen tried to process the possibilities. She wondered if she’d be able to remember all her thoughts and conclusions. She closed her eyes and rested her chin on her palm.
‘Let us have a drink with you,’ said Griff, sitting down across from her. Her empty wineglass was the only thing on the table, a lonely chess piece in a losing game. ‘We hate to see someone looking so forlorn at a party. This was meant to be a happy occasion. Harry would have wanted us to keep it that way.’
Scarlett was standing behind him. She nodded, giving her consent to this one act of kindness, and sat down at the table. They struck Helen as an astonishingly beautiful couple.