by Penny Kline
He was lying face down, with his head turned to one side. Blue jeans and a red T-shirt. White trainers, bright blue socks. No blood. But it could be hidden from sight. No movement and, when she spoke his name, no response. But he could be unconscious.
‘Noel, it’s me, Jane. Noel? Can you hear me? What happened? Can you speak? Noel?’
What was she doing? An ambulance. Her phone. It was in her pocket. Because of Eddie. With trembling fingers, she dialled 999 and a flat voice asked if she wanted police, fire or ambulance, and in order to tell them she had to draw in a big gasp of air.
‘Ambulance.’ She stammered out the address. ‘A neighbour. He’s fallen. From high up, I think. A loft conversion, the balcony. Breathing? I’ll check.’ Crouching, close to his head, she repeated her words. ‘It’s me, Noel. Jane. Noel, it’s Jane.’ It was hopeless. He could have been lying there for ages. If it had just happened she would have heard him shout. ‘I think he’s breathing. I’m not sure.’
‘An ambulance is on its way.’
‘Thank you.’ She searched for a pulse. Was sure she felt one. Then not sure she could find it again. ‘It’s all right, Noel. You fell, but an ambulance is coming. You’re going to be all right.’
Where was Eddie? If someone found her, shop-lifting or doing something inappropriate, they would call the police. Did she have her name and address on her? Unlikely. She had no bank card or diary, or any other means of identification. She should have hung a label round her neck but how was she to know she would slip through the front door. It was Simmy’s fault. No, it was her own. Don’t think about all that. Concentrate on Noel. He was as still as a ... as still as ... how had he fallen? Leaning over to check something. Standing on the balcony, one of those wretched balconies. Why couldn’t he have been more careful? He was never careful. She touched his neck, searching for a pulse. Nothing. But she might not be pressing the right place. Was Gus at home or still chatting with the woman from number twenty-two? He couldn’t be back or he would have heard Noel shout. Surely he would have shouted, except there might not have been time. And even if Gus looked through his window, he would be unable to see the body. The body. No, he was still alive. He must be.
‘The ambulance will be here soon.’ But would it? She had heard stories about people waiting up to forty minutes. And it was the weekend. No, surely that made no difference, they worked in shifts, it was the same as a weekday.
Somewhere close by, a bee was buzzing about, and far off she could hear music, a pop song with its ubiquitous drumbeat. One of his arms was under his body and the other was flung out and she saw black paint on his fingers, or it could be varnish. Why couldn’t he have left it to the builders? Why had he been so reckless? Would the ambulance men call the police? Was that what happened when there was an accident? Would they tell Corinne or would she have to break the news? It’s about Noel, Corinne, I’m so sorry but...
‘Noel, can you hear me? It’s Jane.’
A small sound, a whisper. He was alive. ‘It’s all right, Noel. No, don’t try to talk.’ Should she go and look for Gus? No, better to stay. She felt cold, shaky. Should she try CPR? No, if he could speak it was not necessary. Had he spoken or had she imagined it? No, the single word had been unmistakable.
Footsteps heralded the arrival of two paramedics, a man and a woman, dressed in green overalls, the woman taller than the man. Both young.
‘We were in the area.’ The woman’s voice was calm, matter of fact. ‘Are you a relative?’
‘No, a friend, a neighbour. I live next door.’
The woman was kneeling by Noel. ‘Did you see him fall?’
‘No. No, I didn’t. I came round to look for my cat and ... Noel. He’s called Noel. He has a business. Loft conversions. This one’s still under construction. He must have been checking the balcony.’
‘Noel? Can you hear me, Noel?’ The paramedic had started pumping his chest.
Jane brushed earth off a metal chair and sat down. Through a small gap in the fence, she could see the bright colours of her Californian poppies. Their real name was eschscholzia and she had told Eddie how her mother had taught her to spell the word, and ever after Eddie had stumped round the garden repeating the letters. Es-ch-sch-olz-ia.
The paramedic had stopped pumping and was shaking her head. Jane could smell fungi, and something else. Lavender? Rosemary? All her senses were magnified, smells, sounds. The pop music had been replaced by Nessun Dorma, sung by one of those fat Italian opera singers.
‘I’m sorry.’ The male paramedic was standing next to her. ‘Is there someone we can phone? Someone who could stay with you?’
‘No thank you.’
‘The police will have to be informed.’
‘Yes.’ And when she saw them, what would she say? That Noel had spoken to her, a single word that might simply have been breath escaping from his lungs. Better not to mention it. Not for now. She could be wrong. Could have misheard.
The crossword clue, that had been keeping her awake at night, came back to her. Of course. How could she have been so dense? Conceal round old amplifier for crime. Conceal. Hide. Old was o and amplifier was microphone. Mic. “Hide” round “o-mic”. Homicide. When she returned home, she could fill it in and the crossword would be complete.
NINETEEN
Conflicting feelings of guilt and fear tormented her. In her head, she ran and re-ran the day, from the time she collected Eddie from The Spruces to the moment she saw Noel lying motionless on the patio. The whispered word. She could so easily have imagined it. Because she had desperately wanted him to speak – to prove he was still alive. If he had landed in a flower bed he might have survived but Dave had no flower beds, just hard patio slabs and, beyond them, knee-high grass, full of daisies and dandelions.
The hot tears that had poured from her eyes when she woke in the night, and remembered Noel was dead, had left her exhausted, wrung out. Their last conversation played out like a film, together with regret that she had never told him how much she valued his friendship. He had known – there was no need to tell him – but it was a mistake to believe people instinctively knew how you felt. Most people were far too concerned with their own thoughts and feelings.
It was Mrs Cardozo, from the Portuguese café, who had brought Eddie back. Worried she was crossing the road without looking, she had taken her arm and persuaded her to return to Faraday Road. The fact that she believed she was Jane’s sister was neither here nor there. Eddie was safe.
In the circumstances, it had seemed best to take her straight back to The Spruces. Better for Eddie and certainly better for Jane who was too shocked to cope with her demands. Instead of offering sympathy, the matron was only concerned Eddie might have seen Noel’s body. Very unfortunate, Miss Seymour. I think we should leave it for the time being. What had she meant? Until Eddie had another weekend at home? Passing Eddie on to another member of staff, she had accompanied Jane to her car and the hand on her arm had offered little comfort.
As with any sudden death, the police had been involved and some of the residents of Faraday Road had been interviewed – briefly, since no one had anything useful to tell them. Jane had described her part in the affair, but not mentioned Eddie because what was the point? Did that count as a lie of omission? Possibly, but she was too tired to agonise over her decision. There would be a post-mortem – accidental death due to a fall, resulting in a fatal injury – and that would be the end of it.
After breakfast, she strolled round the garden, hoping to calm herself. The potentilla could always be relied on, and had been flowering since May, and the hollyhocks thrived in their sheltered spot. Even though she lived in the middle of a city, she would have liked a cottage garden, full of scarlet pimpernels, lady’s mantle, purple toadflax, and vetch. She and Eddie had different tastes in plants and a few years back Eddie had planted a yucca. Jane disliked its stiff leaves and waxy flowers, but pulling it up would be like removing the last trace, and the thought that Eddie would be indifferent m
ade her weep.
When she discovered Eddie was missing, Any Questions had been close to finishing and someone had been holding forth on today’s teenagers. Jane preferred Any Answers – the opinions of so-called ordinary people tended to be more sensible, and frequently better informed – and experts were rapidly becoming one of her bêtes noires. Pundits. Originally the word had meant “a learned person, a teacher”. Now it was applied to talk show hosts and football commentators. The last question on Any Answers, the light-hearted one, was about teenagers. How irrelevant it seemed.
By the time Mrs Cardozo brought Eddie back it was well after three. The ambulance had left but two police officers were still making house-to-house inquiries and Jane had explained to Mrs Cardozo what had happened, while simultaneously thanking her profusely. Eddie, oblivious of the tragedy, had made a beeline for the biscuit tin and Jane had left her to it, waiting until Mrs Cardozo had gone before questioning her, but receiving nothing in terms of a sensible reply. Be quiet. Go away. Bugger off...
Someone was ringing her bell. Please God, not Simmy complaining about her father. Or poor Corinne needing a shoulder to cry on. It was Gus.
‘Feeling any better?’ For once, he was quite smartly dressed – grey trousers and a sports jacket, open-neck shirt. A sop to the seriousness of the last few days or was he on the way to meet the woman at number twenty-two? Touched by his concern, Jane’s spirits rose a little, then sank when he wanted her to go over again how she had found Noel. ‘You’re thinking I should have tried harder to revive him. I thought I found a pulse, but I couldn’t be certain. Then the paramedics arrived – they were already in the area – and I ...’
‘I imagine he’d have been killed on impact.’
‘Yes. Yes, I hope so. I mean .’
‘Going to invite me in then?’
‘Yes, of course. I was out in the garden but you can hear the bell. It’s a new one, wi-fi, and after reading the instructions I managed to turn up the volume.’ Why was she burbling on about a bell? Gus was being kind. He had no other reason to call by.
Rousseau was in the sitting room, sniffing the book she had left on the floor, a thriller set in North Devon. The house was not as tidy as she would have liked, but she had not been expecting visitors, had not even cleared away the breakfast things. Gus had interrupted her routine. Good for Gus. She was becoming far too set in her ways. Normally, on Mondays, she put her washing in the machine. She would like to have included Gus’ shirt.
He reached out a hand to Rousseau. ‘What do you think then, you old hedonist?’
‘Wouldn’t mind being a cat, would you?’
His silence put her on her guard.
‘Coffee?’
‘Not for me.’ He felt inside his jacket and scratched his armpit. ‘Must have shaken you up.’
‘At least Eddie knew nothing about it. Mrs Cardozo brought her back. She escaped while I was talking to Simmy. I’d locked the front door, but when Simmy ...’
‘How long was she gone?’
Why was he asking? ‘About half an hour. No, more. That was how long I looked for her. Then I came back and while I was checking the garden in case she’d managed to open the door to the alleyway, Rousseau jumped down from the magnolia tree into yours, I mean Dave’s, and your front door was open so I thought the builders must —’
‘Think I might have that coffee. Milk and two sugars.’ He followed her to the kitchen. ‘Perhaps you should get something from the old doc.’
‘I’m fine, just sad for poor Noel. And Corinne.’ Against her better judgement, an image sprang to mind. Noel, wearing a mortar board and holding up the ridiculous knickers. She could tell Gus – it would amuse him – but it no longer seemed funny. ‘What do you suppose will happen to her? To Corinne?’
‘Not our problem.’ Gus took the kettle from her hand and filled it at the tap. ‘You go and sit down. No, don’t look like that. I can make a cup of coffee as long as it’s instant. As a matter of fact, my cooking’s improved too. Been watching some of those programmes with celebrity chefs. Have you noticed how their kitchens never get in a mess. Spotless. Not a thing out of place. Off you go then. Milk and sugar?’
‘Just milk.’ She felt weak with gratitude. Someone who wanted to look after her. And Gus, of all people.
By the time he rejoined her, she had decided to tell him what Noel had whispered. She wanted to, needed to, but when he sat down and waited patiently for her to speak, something held her back. Supposing Eddie had gone up to the loft conversion while she was talking to Simmy. Ten minutes, that’s all it would have taken, then off to the shops without bothering to mention what she had done.
Gus was telling her how he had spent Saturday morning taking photos for a competition. No mention was made of his conversation with the woman from number twenty-two. Had he been on his way home? Was she interested in photography? A shared interest that had brought them together?
‘Were you pleased with them? A local competition, is it, or a national one? I always buy that calendar you can order. Wildlife. Wonderful pictures of animals and birds. And insects, I expect. Does it have insects?’
‘Noel enjoyed taking risks.’
‘Yes, yes he did. You think he leaned over the balcony and lost his balance?’
‘Seems the most likely explanation.’ He placed a table in front of her and put her cup on it, splashing coffee in the saucer. ‘How are you going to spend the rest of the day?’
‘I haven’t thought.’ Was it an invitation? They could go to the Portuguese café together. She might tell him then. See if he thought she could have heard correctly. It would be such a relief.
‘I should rest,’ he said, ‘read a book. Watch the telly.’
‘I ought to visit Eddie.’
He picked up his coffee and took a sip. ‘Made it too strong. Sorry.’
‘No, it’s fine.’
‘Did she know what had happened?’
Jane shook her head. ‘Hadn’t a clue. Have you seen anyone else? Everyone in the road must be so shocked. People were fond of him.’
Gus gave a snort. ‘You were.’
‘I know you don’t like the loft conversions but most people ... the Emersons had theirs converted a few months ago and they’re delighted with it. Where did you go – to take your photos?’
‘Travelled on the bus.’
‘Oh,’
‘Not far. A few miles out of the city. Wooded area.’
‘Oh.’ He thought she was asking too many questions. ‘I’ll go round to Corinne’s later. See if there’s anything I can do. I didn’t tell the police Eddie had been staying here. And I didn’t tell the matron at The Spruces about her going missing.’
‘Very wise.’
The silence between them made her swallow several times. Had he guessed she was keeping something from him? How could he? ‘Eddie had been looking round the shops. That’s where Mrs Cardozo found her. Outside the pet shop, holding a bag of hay.’
Gus was watching her half-closed eyes. ‘She likes shopping. Used to.’
‘She still has a passion for sweets. The kind small children like. Jelly babies are her favourite. Oh, and ice cream. I should have thought of it, stocked up before she came. As it was I had to make a dash – to that Polish shop. They keep all the usual brands. I was quite surprised.’
Gus stood up, abandoning his “too strong” coffee. ‘Right, I’d better be off.’
‘A business meeting?’
He smiled to himself. ‘A good long rest, Jane. Get you back on your feet. Got to keep your strength up.’
As she let him out, her mouth trembled. Delayed shock? ‘Oh, just before you go, Gus, your friend at number twenty-two didn’t notice anything, did she?’
‘How d’you mean?’
‘On Saturday. I thought she might have seen Noel going up to the loft conversion. Did the police speak to her?’
‘Don’t think so.’ He was frowning. He had taken the trouble to call round and she was being nosey, inte
rfering.
Or had the reason for his unexpected visit been to convince her he had been miles away from Faraday Road when Noel fell?
TWENTY
‘Last Saturday, Eddie, you remember? You came back to Faraday Road, back to the house. And you saw Simmy. Simmy from next door. And you had a look round the shops. Is that what you did? Did you go anywhere else? Eddie?’
‘I’m cold.’
‘They’ve almost finished the loft conversion next door.’
Eddie nodded as though she understood.
‘Such a disruption for poor Dave and Simmy. And Gus. You remember Gus who wears a fisherman’s cap.’
‘I’m cold.’
‘Poor Simmy hasn’t got a mother. She died when Simmy was very young. Cancer, I expect. Dave won’t tell her what happened. I’ve no idea why.’
Eddie looked up with interest but it was only because the old man, sitting opposite, was fiddling with the zip on his trousers. ‘The new loft conversion, Eddie, all those vans and skips and scaffolders. And it’s going to stick out at the back and throw shade onto part of our garden. You remember Noel?’ Jane’s eyes filled with tears. Of sadness, or was it fear? ‘You liked Noel, he made you laugh.’
‘Is it time?’
‘Those balconies are dangerous. I dislike the things. No planning permission required, or if there is it’s minimal. And the builders make such a racket. Radio One – or it could be some local station, I suppose. Love, love, love, I loved her and she left. And I’m bereft.’ Jane laughed out loud, a nervous reaction since there was nothing amusing about love and loss. Earlier in the day she had bumped into Willa in floods of tears. Oh, Jane, I can’t bear it. He was so young. I mean, he wasn’t old. It’s so awful, such a shock.