An Untidy Death

by Simon Brett

  A shadow of doubt crossed her face. ‘I hope it’ll be all right,’ she said. ‘I just hope to God it’ll be all right.’

  I saw the fear in her eye. Sentences for the kind of crimes her husband committed can sometimes be excessively lenient. Whether she and Amy would be allowed to continue to live peacefully in their house once Craig had been released … well, no one could predict that.

  I had a feeling Mary Griffin might be on my unpaid books for quite a time to come.

  I’d left the Yeti at Dodge’s. He was silent as we drove back. ‘Everything all right?’ I asked.

  ‘Yes, yes,’ he replied vaguely. And I realized the limitations of my knowledge of him. There were substantial areas of his past and his current life which he never talked about. I respected that and never probed. If he wanted to share something with me, that was his decision.

  But I got the feeling that something was upsetting him.

  I was on my way back to Chichester when I remembered a call I hadn’t made. I stopped in a layby and keyed in the number.

  ‘Hello?’

  The word had a questioning tone. I immediately recognized the voice from the message left over the weekend.

  ‘Mr Finch, it’s Ellen Curtis of SpaceWoman. Returning your call.’

  ‘Oh, thank you very much for getting back to me.’ He somehow sounded surprised that I had.

  There was a silence. ‘So, how can I help you?’ I prompted.

  ‘Ah. Well. Yes. The fact is … I gather you help people who’ve sort of … let things get on top of them. That is … I meant literal things, objects, stuff. I didn’t mean letting “things get on top of them” in the emotional sense.’

  I could have told him that very often the two came together, but it wasn’t the moment. ‘You’re right. That’s what I do. “Decluttering and Interior Restyling” it says on my card.’

  ‘Yes, yes, I saw that.’

  ‘Sorry, do you mind if I ask where you saw it?’ It’s important that I know where I’m getting enquiries from. ‘Online?’

  ‘Oh, no, no,’ he said in a tone confirming my earlier impression that he wasn’t at the sharp end of modern technology. ‘No, a friend looked up the listings or whatever you call them. In a newspaper, I assume. And she recommended you because you were local.’

  ‘Right. So, do you mind if I ask where you are based?’

  ‘I’m in Lancing. I have a bungalow in Lancing.’ No surprise. Bungalows are spread like a rash along the South Coast.

  ‘Not too far away,’ I said. ‘That’s fine.’

  Another silence required a further prompt from me. ‘And you’re finding you’re rather drowning in stuff … is that the problem?’

  ‘Exactly that. “Drowning in stuff” – very apposite, a very good way of putting it.’

  ‘Well, maybe I should come and have a look at your place, see what I can do to help you?’

  ‘Oh, would you be prepared to do that?’ He sounded surprised.

  ‘That’s what my job is,’ I said. ‘And, incidentally, you won’t be charged anything for the first visit.’

  ‘That’s very kind,’ he said, again surprised.

  ‘Well, let’s get the details, where you are and when it would be convenient to come and visit you.’

  I had been promising myself that I would catch up with sending out some invoices that afternoon, just ahead of my accountant badgering me about it. But I’d always rather be out doing the practical part of the job than the paperwork, so we fixed that I’d go to Edward Finch’s place at two.

  As we were nearing the end of the call, I asked, ‘Is this problem of clutter something you’ve been dealing with for a long time?’

  ‘Well,’ he replied, ‘I’ve never been the tidiest of people, but … I think things have got a lot worse since my wife died.’

  It’s so often the case that hoarding behaviour is triggered by bereavement. I identified Edward Finch’s type; a widower whose grief paralysed any tidying-up instinct he might have possessed. A straightforward, standard-issue case.

  How wrong could I be?

  THREE

  Edward Finch was not one of those hoarders whose problem you would recognize from outside their homes. The front garden of his Lancing bungalow was well maintained, the gate neatly painted black, and no weeds allowed to assert themselves between the red bricks of the front path. The exterior was only distinguishable from all of the others in the road by choice of paintwork and curtains.

  The interior, though, was another matter. As I could see as soon as he opened the front door.

  He opened it wide, which was unusual. Many hoarders are resistant to letting anyone into their space. Even people they’re expecting. Many’s the appointment I’ve made which didn’t happen because the client wouldn’t allow me in. In some cases, I’ve had to go through a kind of wooing process, turning up every day for a week until I was finally granted admission. Occasionally, that moment never arrived and, if there was a Health and Safety issue, the police would have to take a battering ram to the front door.

  Those who do let me in often take a long time to come to the door and then peer through a crack with the chain still in place. Edward Finch had no such inhibitions.

  What the opened door revealed in the hall was untidiness but not squalor. Nor did I get the blast of smell for which I always prepare myself at a new property. I immediately removed the sharp-proof gloves which I wear as a precautionary measure on a first visit.

  The walls of the hall were piled high with sagging cardboard boxes whose contents I could only guess at. They were teetering towards the ceiling and probably a bit wobbly but not an immediate danger (depending of course on how heavy their contents were). I’ve seen much worse. There was a clear path between them and the exposed carpet had been recently vacuumed.

  Edward Finch did not look too far gone either. When I meet a new client, I have to be prepared for anything. Some hoarders are literally unaware of their appearance and, never seeing anyone, don’t make any concessions to personal hygiene. But he wasn’t like that.

  A small, neat man with a good head of well-cut grey hair, he had shaved that morning. His brown eyes looked innocent, exposed almost, ready to flinch at any adversity. He wore a khaki quilted gilet over an open-necked tattersall shirt and light brown needlecord trousers.

  ‘Mrs Curtis, so good of you to come.’ As he had on the phone, he sounded almost surprised that I was fulfilling the agreement to visit him. I was only doing my job, after all.

  ‘My pleasure,’ I said. There was not exactly an awkward silence, but a vague one. He looked at me as if he had been expecting someone quite different. ‘May I come in?’ I asked.

  ‘Yes, yes, of course. Sorry, forgetting my manners.’ He ushered me in and closed the front door behind me.

  Again, a moment of indecision. Then, ‘Can I offer you a tea or coffee?’

  ‘Oh, thank you. A coffee’d be lovely.’

  ‘Would you mind coming through to the kitchen while I make it? I’d show you into the sitting room but it’s a bit of a glory hole.’

  From what I could gather of the bungalow’s layout, the living room and kitchen were to the right of the hall. To the left presumably there were two bedrooms and a bathroom.

  The kitchen was chaotic too, but again it was organized chaos. No smell here either, no rotting food. Yes, a lot of instant meal cartons, but all stacked up in an orderly fashion. And no unwashed crockery in the sink. Either Edward had an intrinsic sense of tidiness or he had someone who came in to help him keep the right side of total dysfunction.

  The kettle he filled and the mugs he brought down from a cupboard were clean. ‘Sorry, it’s instant. Is that OK?’

  ‘Fine.’

  ‘Milk or sugar?’

  ‘Dash of milk, please.’

  He made the drinks, putting two heaped teaspoons of sugar into his own. As he passed my mug across, he said, ‘Right, brace yourself for the worst.’ And he led the way back into the hall and opene
d the door of the sitting room.

  Yes, again it was a mess, but nothing that I couldn’t have sorted out in a couple of hours with some cardboard boxes and binbags. Not a hoarder’s accumulation of stuff, more just evidence of laziness, and of the fact that this was the home of a book-lover. They were scattered all over the place. Also, magazines and newspapers left open, a few discarded garments, shoes shuffled off on to the floor while watching television. Nothing that would decompose. Not even any encrusted coffee cups on the mantelpiece.

  I looked around the room and shrugged. ‘This isn’t bad,’ I said. ‘I don’t think you have a big problem, Mr Finch.’

  ‘Oh, please call me Edward.’

  ‘Very well, Edward,’

  ‘My friends call me Eddie.’

  ‘Well, let’s stick with Edward, for the time being, shall we?’ I wasn’t being standoffish; I just like keeping things professional.

  ‘Very well.’

  He looked slightly hurt, so I said, ‘And you call me Ellen.’

  ‘Right.’ That seemed to cheer him.

  ‘As I say, I don’t really see a major hoarding problem here. Just think you need to get into the habit of putting things away when you’ve finished with them.’

  ‘Hm.’ He nodded thoughtfully and took a sip from his coffee. ‘Of course,’ he said, ‘you haven’t seen the bedrooms yet.’

  ‘No, that’s true. I haven’t.’

  He led me across the hall to where I’d assumed the sleeping quarters would be. Spare bedroom facing the front with a door through to the bathroom, from which another door led back to the master bedroom (if you can actually have a ‘master bedroom’ in a bungalow). That had a second door opening on to the hall.

  The spare room was untidy in the way that a student’s room might be. Books, papers scattered on every surface, clothes twisted into humanoid shapes as they’d been discarded on to the floor. Laptop and television perched on top of stuff on the dressing table. The bed was unmade.

  ‘This is where I’m currently sleeping,’ said Edward Finch. ‘Come through.’

  There were towels on the bathroom floor, but the ceramic surfaces had all recently been wiped clean.

  ‘This is where the problem really is,’ he said as he opened the door to the back bedroom.

  I saw what he meant. The wardrobe doors were open, and their contents spread literally over everything. Dresses, trouser suits, underwear, make-up, scattered on the double bed, bedside tables, dressing table, chairs. Here there was a smell, not a revolting one, just the clinging odour of stale perfume.

  Everything that belonged to Edward Finch’s wife was there. Everything except for the woman herself.

  He turned to face me. Tears glinted in the innocent brown eyes. ‘I can’t move it,’ he said. ‘I keep trying and I … just can’t move it.’

  This was a problem I’d encountered many times before. Bereavement affects people in different ways. Some immediately remove every trace of the deceased, hoping that will kill the memories. Some physically distance themselves, moving house as quickly as possible. Others, like Edward Finch, find removing the belongings of the departed more than they can cope with. I’ve known cases where the bereaved haven’t moved a single item for ten years or longer.

  ‘I understand, Edward,’ I said. ‘The way you’re reacting is quite common, after the loss of a loved one. And I know that at the moment the task seems insurmountable, but I promise you I can help you achieve it.’

  ‘As you have helped other people?’ There was a new edge of cynicism in his voice.

  ‘Exactly. As I have helped other people.’

  ‘Yes, but I’m not like other people.’

  ‘No, everyone is different. I’m sure we can find a way to—’

  ‘Other people didn’t kill their wives, did they?’ said Edward Finch.

  FOUR

  I didn’t think he was telling the truth. I don’t mean that he was deliberately lying, just that he was confused, that bereavement wasn’t allowing him to think straight. He may have felt guilty about his wife’s death – that’s a very common reaction – but I didn’t think he’d caused it. Anyway, I certainly wasn’t about to pass on what Edward Finch had told me to the police.

  So, I ignored his pronouncement, which seemed rather to annoy him, as if he felt cheated of further interrogation. I suggested we should make an appointment for me to come and start the clearance required. That seemed to cheer him up and I went through the ritual of telling him my charges and terms of business. My view was that spending more time with Edward Finch might help me understand why he’d come up with a confession of murder. And help me to judge whether there was any element of truth in the claim.

  Anyway, we fixed that I would do a working visit to him the day after next, the Wednesday.

  I’d been in the bungalow for less than half an hour, so there was nothing to stop me from returning to face the reproachful invoices in Chichester. I had only just got in the Yeti and turned on the ignition when my mobile rang.

  ‘Hello?’

  ‘Is that SpaceWoman?’

  ‘Yes. You’re talking to Ellen Curtis.’ I always answered like that. Not to give the impression that I managed a huge staff, just to open up the possibility of a first-name conversation.

  ‘You don’t know me. My name’s Cara Reece. And I believe you’ve just been visiting Edward Finch.’

  I looked along the row of near-identical bungalows. Behind which untwitching curtains did the spy lurk?

  ‘Yes. Yes, I have,’ I confirmed.

  ‘He told me you were coming. I was so glad.’

  ‘Sorry, I’m not quite sure who you are.’

  ‘I’m a friend of Eddie’s. We used to teach at the same school.’

  ‘Ah. Thank you.’

  ‘And I was the one who persuaded him to contact you. You know, I looked online for a suitable person to help him and you seemed to fit the bill … sorry, is it Mrs Curtis or Miss Curtis?’

  ‘Mrs.’

  ‘So, you’re married?’

  This was an odd thing to say and the way she said it was odd too. Almost with relief. I found myself saying, ‘I’m a widow.’ Which is unlike me. Normally, I keep my personal information to a minimum at work. I moved on quickly. ‘Anyway, call me Ellen.’

  ‘Oh. Thank you. Then please call me Cara.’

  ‘Fine. Cara it is.’

  ‘What I really wanted to ask, Ellen, is: Do you think you can help him?’

  ‘Yes, I think I can.’

  ‘I’m so pleased. He was so totally devastated when Pauline died.’

  Good to have a name. It struck me that Edward hadn’t mentioned that detail.

  ‘I mean,’ Cara went on, ‘I’ve done what I could to help … you know, run a Hoover over things, cooked him the odd meal …’ That explained the relative tidiness of the bungalow. ‘But increasingly I’ve been coming round to the idea that Eddie needs professional help … which is why I got him to contact you.’

  ‘I’m glad you did, Cara.’

  ‘I wasn’t sure whether it was practical help he needed or, you know, psychological …?’

  I didn’t tell her how close the two were. I just said, ‘I’ll start with getting the practical stuff sorted. Then we’ll see what kind of a state he’s in, whether he needs more specialized help.’

  ‘Thank you. I’m so relieved that he let you in.’

  ‘Sorry?’

  ‘Eddie’s very volatile. Sometimes he won’t let me in the house, even if I’ve made an arrangement to see him. Sometimes he doesn’t even answer his phone. He knows how worried I get about that.’

  What she said made me wonder if there was another side to Edward Finch, capable of using his mental state to exercise power over Cara. Her tone of voice suggested she was almost frightened of him. Subservient, certainly. He wouldn’t be the first time I’d encountered the phenomenon of an ineffectual control freak.

  There were interesting depths to the relationship between Edward Fin
ch and Cara Reece. Interesting for a psychologist, that is, not depths I needed to investigate. Not at that point, anyway.

  ‘As I said,’ Cara went on – I got the feeling she was a bit of a talker, ‘I’m so pleased that you’re going to be helping Eddie. If I give you my number, will you keep me up to date with how things go?’

  ‘Assume they’re fine unless you hear from me.’ I said this for reasons of client confidentiality. My work often leads to the uncovering of personal secrets which should not be spread around. Like, say, someone confessing to having murdered his wife.

  Maybe Cara’s thoughts were moving in the same direction, because she asked, rather anxiously, ‘Eddie didn’t say anything to you, did he … about the circumstances of Pauline’s death …?’

  ‘No,’ I lied cheerfully.

  I ended the conversation with Cara but was frustrated from driving off by another phone call.

  ‘Hi, it’s Alexandra Richards.’ She sounded so much more animated than she had on our previous encounter that I hardly recognized her voice. Before I could say anything, she went on, ‘I’ve talked to Ingrid and she’s happy to see you.’

  ‘Oh, well done. Will you be there?’

  ‘No. She says she wants it to be just the two of you when she interviews you.’

  ‘Oh, I see.’ I was amused. ‘She’s going to interview me, is she?’

  Alexandra didn’t answer that. She said, ‘Could you make it this evening?’

  I had no plans beyond cooking myself something and a bit of random television, so I agreed. ‘You said she lives in Brighton …?’

  She gave me the address in Brunswick Square. Hove technically, of course, rather than Brighton. Not cheap, though. Top-floor apartment in one of those lovely old Grade I Regency houses built round the central garden on three sides and facing the sea.

  ‘Would six o’clock be all right for you, Ellen?’

  ‘I could do that, yes.’

  ‘One thing …’ Alexandra added.

  ‘Yes?’

  ‘Do you drink?’

  ‘Why do you ask?’