It was hard to tell from the little hallway what condition the flat was going to be in. In Andrew’s experience, the places fell into two categories: either they were immaculately clean—no dust, no cobwebs, not a thing out of place—or they were overpoweringly squalid. It was the former that Andrew found the most upsetting by far, because to him it never felt as simple as the deceased’s just being house-proud. Instead, it seemed more likely that they knew that when they died they were going to be found by a stranger and couldn’t bear the thought of leaving a mess. It was like a more extreme version of people who spent the morning feverishly tidying in preparation for the cleaner. Of course there was a certain dignity to it, but it made Andrew’s heart break to think that, for some people, the moments immediately following their death were more of a pressing concern than whatever time they had left to live. Chaos, on the other hand—clutter and filth and decay—never felt quite as upsetting. Maybe the deceased had just been unable to look after themselves properly in their last days, but Andrew liked to think that they were actually giving the finger to convention. Nobody had bothered to hang around to look after them, so why should they carry on giving a shit? You can’t go gently into the good night when you’re laughing uproariously imagining some mug from the council slipping on some shit on the bathroom floor.
The fact that he was forced to shoulder open the door to the little living room suggested this was going to be the latter of the two scenarios, and, sure enough, the smell hit him with an overwhelming intensity, greedily seeking out his nostrils. He usually refrained if possible from spraying air freshener, but to really be able to spend time there he would have to. He fired off a generous burst in each corner, picking his way through the mess, and reserved the most prolonged spray for the center of the room. He would have opened the grimy window but the key was presumably lost somewhere in all the clutter. The floor was covered by an ocean of blue corner-shop bags stuffed with empty crisp packets and cans of soft drinks. In one corner, a mound of clothes. In another, newspapers and mail, mostly unopened. In the middle of the room there was a green camping chair, a can of cherry Coke in each cup holder, opposite a television that was propped up on an uneven pile of telephone directories, so that it sloped to one side. Andrew wondered if Eric had suffered from a crick in his neck from having to angle his head at the listing screen. On the floor in front of the chair was an upturned microwave meal, yellow rice spilled all around it. That was probably where it happened. That chair. Andrew was about to make a start on the pile of mail when he remembered Peggy.
“How is it?” she said when he stepped outside.
“It’s pretty messy, and the smell isn’t . . . ideal. You can always wait outside if you’d prefer.”
“No,” Peggy said, clenching and unclenching her hands at her sides. “If I don’t do it the first time then I never will.”
She followed him into the living room, and apart from the fact she was holding her mask to her face so firmly her knuckles were faintly white, she didn’t seem too distressed. They surveyed the living room together.
“Wow,” Peggy eventually mumbled through her mask. “There’s something so, I dunno, static about all this. It’s like the place died with him.”
Andrew had never really thought about it that way. But there was something eerily still about it all. They reflected in silence for a moment. If Andrew had known any profound quotes about death this would have been the perfect time for one. It was then that an ice-cream van went past outside, cheerily blasting out “Popeye the Sailor Man.”
* * *
—
Under Andrew’s instruction, they began to sort through all the paper.
“So what am I actually looking for?” Peggy said.
“Photos, letters, Christmas or birthday cards—anything that might indicate a family member, their phone number or a return address. Oh, and any bank statements so we can get a sense of his finances.”
“And a will, presumably?”
“Yes, that too. That usually depends on whether he’s got a next of kin. The vast majority of people without one won’t have a will.”
“Makes sense, I guess. Here’s hoping you had a bit of cash, Eric old boy.”
They worked methodically, Peggy following Andrew’s lead by clearing a space as best as possible on the floor and creating separate piles for documents depending on whether they contained any useful information or not. There were utility bills and a TV license reminder, along with a catalog from the official Fulham Football Club shop, scores of takeaway menus, a warranty for a kettle and an appeal from the Shelter charity.
“I think I’ve got something,” Peggy said after twenty minutes of fruitless searching. It was a Christmas card, featuring some laughing monkeys in Christmas hats with the caption: “Chimply Having a Wonderful Christmastime!” Inside, in handwriting so small it was as if the person were trying to remain anonymous, it read:
To Uncle Eric,
Happy Christmas
Love from Karen
“He’s got a niece then,” Peggy said.
“Looks like it. Any other cards there?”
Peggy dug about and did her best not to flinch when a horribly dozy fly was disturbed and flew past her face.
“Here’s another one. A birthday card. Let’s see now. Yep, it’s from Karen again. Hang on, there’s something else written here: ‘If you ever want to give me a call, here’s my new number.’”
“There we go,” Andrew said. Ordinarily he would have called the number there and then, but he felt self-conscious with Peggy beside him so he decided to wait until they were back at the office.
“Is that it, then?” Peggy said, making subtle movements toward the door.
“We still need to see about his financial situation,” Andrew said. “We know he had a small amount in a current account, but there might be something else here.”
“Cash?” Peggy said, looking around at all the mess.
“You’d be surprised,” Andrew said. “The bedroom’s usually a good place to start.”
Peggy watched from the doorway as Andrew headed for the single bed and dropped to his knees. The light coming from the window was catching the dust in the air. Every time he shifted on the floor another bloom of it billowed up, disturbing the rest. He tried not to grimace. This was the part that he found hardest, because it felt even more invasive to be poking around in someone’s bedroom.
He made sure to tuck his sleeves into his protective gloves before reaching under the mattress at one end, slowly sweeping his hand along.
“Say he does have ten grand stashed away somewhere,” Peggy said. “But he hasn’t got a next of kin. Where would the money go?”
“Well,” Andrew said, readjusting his position, “any cash or assets he has first of all go to paying for the funeral. What’s left over is kept in the safe at the office. If nothing comes to light about someone who’s clearly entitled to the money—extended family and so on—then it goes to the Crown Estate.”
“What, so old Betty Windsor gets her hands on it?” Peggy said.
“Um, sort of,” Andrew said, sneezing as some dust went up his nose. He found nothing on the first sweep, but after bracing himself and reaching in further he touched something soft and lumpy. It was a sock—Fulham FC branded—and inside was a bundle of notes, mostly twenties, held in place by an elastic band. For no discernible reason the elastic band had been almost entirely colored in with blue pen. Whether it denoted something vitally important or was just an act of idle doodling, Andrew wasn’t sure. It was this kind of detail that stayed with him long afterward: odd little elements of a forgotten life, the reasons for their existence unknowable, leaving him with a subtle feeling of unresolved tension, like seeing a question written down without a question mark.
From the amount of notes there he knew it was going to be enough for Eric to cover the cost of his funeral. It would be u
p to his niece how much she wanted to help out too.
“So, is that it?” Peggy said. Andrew could tell she was now really rather keen to be outside and breathe fresh air again. He remembered that feeling from his own first time—that first gulp of polluted London air was like being reborn.
“Yep, that’s us done.”
He gave the place one final check in case they’d missed anything. They were just preparing to leave when they heard movement by the front door.
The man in the hallway clearly hadn’t been expecting anyone to be there, judging from the surprise on his face and the fact he immediately took two steps back toward the door when he saw them. He was squat and noticeably perspiring—a bowling ball of a beer belly threatening to escape from under his polo shirt. Andrew braced himself for confrontation. God, how he despised encounters with these cynical, desperate opportunists.
“You police?” the man said, eyeing their protective gloves.
“No,” Andrew said, making himself look the man in the eye. “We’re from the council.”
The fact the man visibly relaxed at this point—even taking a step forward—was enough for Andrew to know why he was there.
“You knew the deceased?” he asked, trying to stand tall in the small hope the man might mistake him for a retired bare-knuckle boxer rather than someone who got vaguely out of breath watching snooker.
“Yeah, that’s right. Eric.”
A pause.
“Real shame about, you know, him passing on and that.”
“Are you a friend or relative?” Peggy said.
The man looked her up and down and scratched his chin, as if appraising a secondhand car.
“Friend. We were tight. Really tight. We went way back.”
As the man went to smooth what remained of his greasy hair against his head, Andrew noticed his trembling hand.
“How long we talking?” Peggy said.
Andrew was glad Peggy was taking the lead. The way she spoke, the steeliness of her voice, sounded much more authoritative.
“Oh, blimey, there’s a question. A long old time,” the man said. “You lose track of these things, don’t you?”
Apparently confident that Peggy and Andrew weren’t anything to worry about, he was now distracted by trying to look past them into the living room. He took another step forward.
“We were just about to lock up,” Andrew said, showing the key in his hand. The man eyed it with barely concealed magpie-like intent.
“Right, yeah,” the man said. “I was just here to pay my respects and whathaveyou. As I say we were good mates. I don’t know if you found a will or anything . . .”
Here we go, Andrew thought.
“. . . but he’d actually said if he were to pass away, you know, suddenly and that, he’d want me to have a couple of his things.”
Andrew was about to explain, as calmly as he could, that anything that made up Eric’s estate needed to remain untouched until everything was clarified, but Peggy got in ahead of him.
“What was it Mr. Thompson was going to leave you?” she said.
The man shifted his feet and cleared his throat. “Well, there was his telly, and truth be told he did owe me a little bit of cash too.” He flashed a yellow smile. “To make up for all the drinks I’d bought him over the years, you know.”
“Funny that,” Peggy said. “His name was Eric White. Not Eric Thompson.”
The man’s smile vanished.
“What? Yeah, I know. White. What . . .” He looked at Andrew and spoke to him out of the side of his mouth, as if Peggy wouldn’t be able to hear him. “Why’d she do that, try and trick me, when a man’s just died?”
“I think you probably know why,” Andrew said quietly.
The man was suddenly consumed by a hacking cough.
“Bollocks, you’ve no idea,” he spluttered. “No idea,” he said again, yanking the front door open.
Andrew and Peggy waited awhile before they went outside. The man had clumped down the steps and was now halfway across the estate, his hands in his jacket pockets. He turned briefly, backpedaling as he looked up and gave the finger. Andrew took off his mask and gloves and Peggy did the same before wiping a sheen of sweat from her forehead.
“So what did you think of your first property inspection, then?” Andrew said, watching the man disappear around the corner with a final middle finger salute.
“I think,” Peggy said, “that I need a stiff bloody drink.”
— CHAPTER 7 —
Andrew had assumed Peggy was joking even as she marched them into the first pub they came to around the corner from the estate. But then the next thing he knew she’d ordered a pint of Guinness and asked what he was having. He checked his watch. It had only just turned one o’clock.
“Oh, really? Well, I shouldn’t . . . I’m not . . . um . . . okay then. A lager, I suppose, please.”
“Pint?” the barman asked.
“A half,” Andrew said. He suddenly felt like a teenager again. He used to practically hide behind Sally as she’d confidently order them beers in their local. He’d have to hold the pint glass with both hands, like a toddler drinking milk from a bottle.
Peggy was drumming her fingers on the bar impatiently as the barman waited for her half-full Guinness to settle. She looked ready to jump over and drink straight from the tap.
Aside from a couple of regulars who looked so gnarled and settled in, it was as if the structural integrity of the building depended on their presence, they were the only ones there. Andrew was still hanging his coat on the back of a chair when Peggy clinked her glass against his on the table and drank three hearty gulps.
“Christ, that’s better,” she said. “Don’t worry, I’m not an alkie,” she added quickly. “This is my first drink in about a month. That was just pretty intense for a first morning’s work. Usually it’s just seeing where the toilets are and forgetting the name of everyone you’re introduced to. Still, better to properly go for it. It’s like getting into cold water, isn’t it? And I’ve got enough holiday memories of slowly inching my way into the sea, like I could somehow trick my body into not realizing what was happening, to know you’ve just got to get it over with.”
Andrew took a tentative sip of beer. He couldn’t actually remember the last time he’d had an alcoholic drink, but he was fairly certain it hadn’t been lunchtime on a Wednesday.
“How often do chancers like that guy turn up and try and scam money?” Peggy said.
“It’s quite common,” Andrew said. “The stories are usually very similar, though sometimes you get a person with something better prepared, more believable.”
Peggy wiped some foam off her lip. “I’m not sure what’s worse. Maybe the people who concoct a proper story are the real shits, not that dopey idiot back there.”
“I think you’re right,” Andrew said. “At least with Eric we’ve got what looks like a next of kin. That usually settles things—stops the chancers trying to get something when there’s family on the scene.”
One of the locals at the bar began an impressive sneezing fit, entirely ignored by the others dotted around him. He eventually recovered enough to inspect whatever he’d hacked up into a handkerchief with a mixture of surprise and pride before ramming it back up his sleeve.
“Is it usually blokes who, you know, end up like this?” Peggy said, eyeing the sneezer as if he might be their next case.
“Nearly always, yes. I’ve only had one woman”—Andrew went red before he could stop himself—“you know, a dead one.” Oh god! “I mean . . .”
Peggy was trying very hard not to smile. “It’s okay, I know what you mean. You’ve only ever done one house inspection where the deceased was female,” she said, very deliberately.
“That’s right,” Andrew said. “It was my first inspection, actually.”
T
he pub door opened and an elderly couple came in, regulars too, it would seem, judging from the way the barman acknowledged them with a nod and began pouring a pint and a half of bitter without needing to be asked.
“What was that like, then, your first?” Peggy asked.
The memory of that day was still very clear in Andrew’s mind. The woman’s name was Grace, and she’d been ninety when she’d died. Her house had been so immaculate it was as if she might have expired as a result of a particularly vigorous clean. Andrew recalled the intense relief he’d felt when he and Keith had entered the house. Maybe it would always be like this: little old ladies who’d had a good innings and passed away in their sleep; savings in a Mrs. Tiggy-Winkle money jar; Brideshead Revisited on VHS; a kindly next-door neighbor doing the weekly shop and replacing lightbulbs.
That was before he found the note under Grace’s pillow.
In the event of my death: make sure that evil bitch next door gets nothing. She’ll be after my wedding ring—mark my words!
He realized Peggy was looking at him expectantly.
“It was largely fine,” he said, deciding that dropping another grim tale into the mix might not be helpful.
They sipped their drinks and Andrew realized he should really ask Peggy some questions about herself. But his mind was blank. That was the problem when you spent your entire adult life treating small talk like it was Kryptonite. Luckily, Peggy had that rare quality of making a silence seem comfortable. After a while, she broke it. “So is there nobody at the funerals if we’ve not found a next of kin?”
How Not to Die Alone Page 6