by DH Smith
Why was she dwelling on this?
So whacked out, her mind was wandering. She should leave and get home before Clive got back. She didn’t want to see him, he didn’t want to see her. Now that Daddy had gone, she could move in with Mummy. That wouldn’t be bad for a month or two. Get away from Clive, get the flat sold. Of course, she couldn’t bring anyone back to Mummy’s. But Jack had his own place. He was awfully nice, and the fact that Cathy thought him unsuitable made him even nicer.
She’d best pick up some food for tonight. No matter what his other skills were, she didn’t believe he could cook.
‘Hello.’
Ellie looked up and saw Detective Inspector Jones at the classroom door. She was dressed disturbingly like Cathy in a dress suit, but had a cockney accent, which made Ellie think she’d probably worked her way up through the ranks. No family connections. Which meant she was good. Or slept with the Chief Constable.
‘Can I help you?’ said Ellie, trying to look awake.
‘Yes, you can. I’m looking for Mr DeNeuve’s office.’
Ellie was immediately switched on again. Thinking. Give nothing away. Be helpful.
‘I’ll take you there,’ she said.
As they walked down the corridor, Ellie said, ‘Will you be here much longer, Inspector?’
‘We’ve nearly all we want,’ said DI Jones. ‘We’ll be out of your hair tomorrow.’
‘It’s lucky…’ began Ellie, and instantly bit her tongue. What was lucky about your father dying? ‘Another few weeks and it would have been very inconvenient.’
Heavens! What was she saying? Investigating her father’s death – inconvenient!
‘I know,’ said DI Jones. ‘School holidays. Easier for us too.’
‘Have you come to any conclusions?’
‘There’s no obvious injuries on the body,’ said DI Jones. ‘But there’ll be a full autopsy in the next couple of days. Then a date for an inquest will be set…’
‘So there will be an inquest?’
‘Definitely.’
‘But isn’t it obvious how he died?’
‘I have my own ideas, Miss DeNeuve, but there are a few worrying elements – which is why I want to see your father’s office.’
Ellie wanted to ask about the worrying element. But didn’t feel she could. Was not enough in charge of herself to dare.
They came to the office. Ellie knew the push-button code and opened up.
A smell of whisky hit them as they entered. An empty bottle lay on the floor by the large desk whose top was strewn with doodled papers, a folded Times with the crossword half done, a chain of paperclips, and, somewhat incongruously, Book V of Caesar’s Gallic Wars. Ellie looked closer at the newspaper, it was yesterday’s. She felt sick, as if her father was sitting there, accusing her. She didn’t trust herself. She was trembling, breathing quickly.
‘This is very disturbing,’ she said, shuddering. ‘Do you mind if I leave you here, Inspector?’
‘Of course not,’ said the Inspector, beginning to look at the papers on the table. ‘I completely understand.’
‘I feel sick.’
Ellie rushed out the door almost hitting the doorjamb, down the corridor, holding her mouth and stomach, gagging. She scrambled into the toilet, into a cubicle, put her head in the pan. And vomited.
Chapter 41
Jack began with the washing up. In the morning he usually just piled it all in the sink before he went out to work. Sometimes he did the same in the evening until he ran out of crockery, which wasn’t that long as he didn’t have much. He thought it practical not to buy any more. It would only make him messier.
The kitchen floor could do with a wash. The thought was easily dismissed; they weren’t going to eat off it. Not so easily, the stove top. It was filthy. Dark brown grease with small helpless islands of white enamel between. Mostly he didn’t see it, just added to it with his fry ups. But with someone coming, he must clean it. Somewhat.
He begrudged doing it. Such a waste of time, scrubbing and washing. It would only get dirty again.
OK, twenty minutes. Strict. And he stuck to it. Clock watching. Scouring and scraping until the time was up. It was twenty minutes cleaner. Better. He wondered what Ellie was used to. Did she scrub her kitchen cooker? Wash her floors? No, she’d have a cleaner.
He’d ask her.
He ran around his sitting room, gathering up papers, take-away boxes, an overfull bin, and took them all to the outside dustbins. Then spent five minutes searching for the vacuum cleaner. In a flat this size it should be easy to find, except it was buried in a cupboard. It was a sweat getting it out. And almost put him off using it. But there it was, mid carpet, accusing. Use me.
He began vacuuming the sitting room; not much suction. The bag was almost full. He wasn’t going to empty it, besides he didn’t have any spare bags. But the room did need a sweep… He emptied the bag onto newspaper, choking in the dust. The old bag was well past its sell by date. He put it back on and crossed fingers it wouldn’t split while he did the sitting room.
He used to clean up regularly. When Alison had lived in London, she’d come over once and told him straight – Mia wasn’t coming to a filthy flat. He’d argued, on principle, even though he knew she was right. So he cleaned before Mia next came. Alison had conceded it was better. But warned him that if he slipped, then no Mia. So he cleaned whenever Mia was coming over. But then Alison and Mia moved to Brighton. And he’d slipped back as Alison no longer came to inspect.
Maybe one day she’d do a surprise inspection. Just to catch him out.
Mia sometimes complained. And they did a clean up together. There were other times, like now, when he had someone coming. He shuddered to think how he’d live if he had no guests.
Squalor. Like those old people, found dead after a year, a rotting corpse in a house stuffed full of rubbish. Would that be his end? Dying alone, in a mess.
He only cleaned up for other people. Better keep them coming.
Jack went into the bedroom. Another room that would be used. Thankfully, he had a clean bed‑sheet in the cupboard. That went on. He smelt the duvet cover. Acceptable. He had another but it was in the dirty washing. One clean pillowcase. He felt sure he had a pair. The other in the same place as all those lost socks. Sucked down a wormhole into a universe which consisted entirely of lost socks, ballpoints, library books, engagement rings, lost promises, hopes and dreams…
He put the one pillowcase on, the other he turned inside out and slipped back on. Then Jack sat down, more exhausted than from a day’s work.
Ellie had phoned earlier. She was bringing some food. That was a relief. He had hardly anything in and was short of cash after filling up the van earlier. Still, the job would be finished tomorrow and with luck he’d get paid cash on the spot.
Freed from chores, he could think about Ellie. It had come out of nowhere, their scene. He would never have imagined it, not with someone so posh… Her accent, like a lady-in-waiting. Her father had just ignored him. Walking past him in the corridor, that severe way of not looking, passed on through the generations. Didn’t Victorian servants have to turn to face the wall when their betters came down the corridor?
Ellie was educated, while he couldn’t wait to leave school. Still, he’d met plenty of stupid, educated people, who’d read no end of books but couldn’t change a washer. She had money and had a father who could sack a caretaker with the flick of his fingers.
Maybe that’s why he was dead.
He and Ellie differed about George. In the van coming home he’d reverted to his old opinion. George was lying. George was somehow involved in Mr DeNeuve’s death. He was almost sure of it. The ‘almost’ was irritating. George had stolen the school computers, sure enough. Ellie had said that didn’t make him a killer.
That couldn’t be argued with.
George was involved though. He’d go that far. Maybe not killed him. Or maybe he did. Job and home were pretty good motives.
Suppose Mr DeNeuve had gone for a wander in the middle of the night, left his house still tipsy, maybe had topped himself up on his wanderings. Then collapsed somewhere in the grounds. And then along comes George, sleepless, worried about their impending move and his unemployment, finds him passed out on the path, the cause of all their troubles. So easy to give him another wheelbarrow ride; this one down to the lake. And tip him in.
Well, it was a story. With no evidence for the beginning, or the middle, and just a corpse in the lake at the end. And a lying caretaker somewhere in it. Or a mistaken builder.
Leave it to the professionals, said Ellie. Yeh, they had the body, were crawling all over the crime scene. Had interviewed everyone. Leave it to them, like she said. Except he was on the spot. He’d barrowed DeNeuve home last night, and with Mia found him in the morning. The cops came in cold.
Forget it.
He shouldn’t play the wise guy and try to teach the cops their job.
A look at his watch, and Jack did another trip round the flat, as if Ellie might come in, turn her nose up and leave. He’d chance the vacuum cleaner. And did the bedroom, opening the window to air it, and decided that was most definitely that.
He picked up an astronomy magazine. And thought he must get out soon with the telescope. Last night with Mia was clouded over. Today the sky was clear, still pretty clear now, but he had other business tonight. But maybe tomorrow. Mars was well placed and the moon a good fallback.
His bell rang.
Chapter 42
Ellie’s initial plan had been to make a meal at Jack’s. She enjoyed cooking. It didn’t have to be complicated. Fish, some salad, summer fruit and ice cream. She’d gone into Waitrose, picked up a wire basket to fill with the various ingredients and was suddenly overwhelmed with tiredness. No way could she cook. She’d fall asleep over the frying pan. And she put the basket back and walked out empty handed.
She wondered if she should be going to Jack’s at all. In this state. Wouldn’t it be better to just flop? Except she desperately wanted company. And Clive was no longer in the running. Simply an indifferent presence. Worse. She wanted to be held, told that she mattered.
She had to get through the next couple of days. Into normality. Back to routine. Her classes. Teaching, getting the children under control, asking for homework, sorting out their personal problems. Busy, busy.
And in the meantime, Jack was here. Was she using him? Of course, though she never knew why that was wrong. He wanted it, she wanted it. She would never marry him. He knew that, she knew that. Although it would so annoy Cathy if she did. There was no Daddy to storm and rant anymore. That was a curious freedom, the thought that she could marry him.
She’d only known him two days! And here she was drawing happy families.
Not if he knew she’d drowned her father. Would that be grounds for divorce, that she hadn’t told him she had murdered, part murdered Daddy? Might their daughter, some thirty years hence, cart her down to the lake at Bramley? And tip her in.
It would serve her right if she did.
What a scenario! Lack of sleep was driving her whacky.
Today, she’d travelled around by taxi and train. No driving. First dropped off at home. Clive wasn’t there, thank heavens. A shower, clean clothes and another cab to Brentwood Station. There she’d caught the train to Stratford as per Jack’s instructions, and then another to Forest Gate. There was a Co-op supermarket next door to the station, but after a minute or two walking around the shop blankly, she remembered she wasn’t going to cook. She recalled an Indian restaurant she’d seen across the road from the station. She retraced her steps and crossed the high street, to the restaurant, where she ordered a meal to be delivered.
She picked up a bottle of plonk and, consulting her A to Z, headed for Jack’s. Quite a lively area, the street lights just coming on. Takeaways, lots of betting shops – was that what working people did when they weren’t at the pub? What a mass of prejudices she was. Strollers of all age and hue on the street. She’d never been to Forest Gate before. Been warned off by people who’d never been here either. All shootings and drugs gangs, they’d said. No one was shooting anyone tonight that she could see, though half her dozy mind wouldn’t say no to a bullet. Providing it went to the dead centre of the brain.
At Jack’s, a welcome embrace. The flat was small, tidier than she’d expected. It reminded her of her student days.
‘We’ve an Indian meal on the way,’ she said. ‘I hope it works out. I ordered it at Aromas, just near Forest Gate station.’
‘Quite good, that place,’ said Jack with approval. ‘Mia and I’ve eaten there a couple of times.’
‘I was going to cook something,’ she said, excusing herself, ‘I love cooking, but today has been such a strain – I simply couldn’t face it.’
‘Fine by me.’
‘I will make you a meal,’ she said. ‘Promise. Just not tonight.’ She held up the bottle of wine. ‘Drink?’
Jack hesitated, then said, ‘I don’t drink. Sorry, Ellie, should’ve told you. I’m on the wagon. I mustn’t touch the stuff. I don’t mind if you do.’
Ellie twisted the cap off. Cheap plonk, no cork. She took it into the kitchen, and she poured it down the sink.
He came in, to see her holding the empty bottle.
‘You didn’t have to do that.’
‘I did,’ she said. ‘My father was a drunken bully who ended up drowned in the lake… Just suppose he’d have sworn off this stuff, he’d still be here.’ She washed the bottle out and put it on the side. ‘I took the Detective Inspector to Daddy’s office this afternoon. The place stank of whisky. On the floor was an empty bottle, the one that did for him I expect. I don’t know what he had in his cupboards, probably more stash. I could see him at his desk drinking, yelling into the phone, charging into Mummy’s room and tearing strips off her… I felt sick and had to run away.’ She gave a half smile. ‘I don’t need to drink tonight, Jack. I’ve got you.’
She kissed him on the cheek. And he enfolded her.
‘Oh, I need you,’ she sighed.
Her energy was back. Food first. She escaped the embrace and set the table. Pity there was no table cloth. It was just like a student flat. She put out the cutlery, a jug of water and two glasses. And thought it was sound to get rid of the booze. With Jack not drinking, that would have left her with the whole bottle. Pissed, who knows what she might have admitted?
The doorbell rang. She went down, knowing it was their food. There was far too much, in two carrier bags, the separate items in foil dishes. She placed them out: the meat dishes, the vegetables, the popadoms, the naan, the rice, the oddments.
‘I always do this,’ she said. ‘I get tempted, I don’t want to miss out on anything. Anyway, I’m sure you have a good appetite.’
‘I do,’ he said. ‘I haven’t eaten since lunchtime. In fact, I’m glad you didn’t cook.’
‘I’m quick,’ she said, slightly hurt.
‘What did I say that for? Sorry. I am sure you’re an amazing cook.’
‘You’d better believe it. Now dig into this lot. And you can’t go till it’s finished, as my father might have said.’
They began with the popadoms and dips.
‘Cathy went home just before I left,’ she said, ‘and that left Mummy all alone.’ She sighed. ‘I should have kept her company, but I couldn’t stand another evening there.’
‘It’s been a rough day.’
‘I’m going to be poor company,’ she said. ‘I shall be morose, tearful, sulky. And what hurts a man most of all – I won’t laugh at your jokes.’
‘At the moment,’ he said, ‘all I want to do is to eat and look at you across the table. And decide when to eat you too.’
‘I think you’d best start with the food, Mr Wolf. It’s not so nice cold.’ She looked about the flat. ‘You own this place?’
‘Yes,’ he said. ‘This flat, my van and tools. My worldly wealth.’
‘It looks alright
to me,’ she said helping herself to curry and vegetables. ‘You don’t seem unhappy.’
‘I’m OK now,’ he said. ‘Getting by. Building work is an up and down game though. You never can be sure you’ll get work.’
‘The DeNeuves have always had too much,’ she said. ‘It isn’t good for you. You get scared. As if it would be Armageddon to lose Bramley… But it might in fact be one hell of a release.’ She took some peas and cauliflower. ‘Our family was born with its nose in the air. Always believing we were better than hoi polloi. And secretly afraid that we weren’t really.’
‘It’s all relative,’ said Jack. ‘This place would be riches to someone sleeping on the street.’ A sudden thought. ‘Have you got a cleaner?’
She smiled at the switch of subject. ‘Yes, I have. I mean Clive and I have. Maria comes in twice a week. It’d be a tip otherwise.’ She held her hands up. ‘But let’s clear things up. I’m not doing the dirty on Clive tonight by coming here. He’s past caring. We simply share a flat because we’re too lazy to move on. It’s not a relationship. We don’t talk. We shout, if we bother at all. Besides, I’ve decided to move back in with Mummy. It’ll be alright there now, with Daddy gone. And she needs the company.’
His phone rang.
Jack looked at it. ‘It’s my mother, I’d better answer it. I’ll make it quick.’
‘Hello, Mum,’ he said, and went into the kitchen, closing the door after him.
Ellie tore off a piece of naan. She spooned some mutton dopiaza onto her plate, some saag aloo and various bits and pieces. She was glad the food worked out. A poor meal could ruin an evening. Especially this early in a relationship. But this was good. She took another biteful and savoured. Yes, good. And her energy was back. Who knew how long for? But she was here, now. And Jack was energising company. Perhaps not right for marriage. Not when it comes to property. And like Mrs Bennet, one should be practical in terms of money and property. But it wasn’t 1805, and she could have her fling. However long it lasted. A body to comfort her. To pass the night with. X nights with. To help her get over the black days.