Behind Closed Doors

by Catherine Alliott

  ‘Right. With your purse?’

  I shrugged in a menopausal middle-aged woman sort of way and said, ‘God, these days, who knows?’ Hopefully that was self-explanatory without loading him with too much information.

  ‘Oh, right,’ he said shortly. ‘Well, let’s see.’

  He led the way down the hall, through the kitchen and into the study. I glanced around keenly. There was the sofa on which Michael had slept that night. There, in front of it, the coffee table, on which he’d hit his head in the scuffle. The new rug, covering the nasty mark, despite the cleaning company’s efforts. And the French windows, through which the burglar had burst. A blind was above them, which we rarely bothered to pull, since we were never in here at night, but no curtains. And there, down the garden, beyond the high wall, was the house. I stared. Plain grey London brick at the back, with a much prettier white façade at the front. Those top bedrooms, those windows, which I could just see, no doubt looked straight down here, into the study. With quite possibly a birds’ eye view of the entire room. No lights had been on, of course, but there’d been that torch, earlier. And it had been a full moon.

  ‘Not sure you’ll find it out there,’ said Josh, following my gaze.

  I came to. ‘No. No, you’re probably right. I didn’t go in the garden, did I? I would love to, though, now I’m here?’ He looked amazed, as well he might. ‘I mean, obviously my purse isn’t here,’ I gabbled. ‘I must have left it somewhere else, but now that I’m here, well, it’s ages since I’ve seen my roses, and I have to say, you’ve kept them in superb condition, I’m surprised.’ I shored up what I hoped was a dazzling smile, simultaneously reaching for the French door, which happily was unlocked.

  Josh scratched his head as he followed me out in bare feet. ‘Well, you seemed pretty insistent. Didn’t want to hand the place back with everything dead, so I have indeed watered and deadheaded, as instructed.’ He gazed around, rather pleased. ‘I actually found it remarkably pleasurable. Quite therapeutic.’

  ‘Good, good,’ I purred, but I wasn’t really listening. My gaze was trained on the house at the back again. Yes. As I thought, the windows were extremely visible now, but the study was different. More restricted. I went back in. I longed to crouch. See if an inert body on the floor, or even a fully functioning one, sitting on the sofa, hands clenched, could be seen. If from that position, I could see more of the windows. He followed me back, bemused. Not much rose admiring seemed to have taken place. I sat down suddenly on the sofa. Picked up a Chinese vase on the coffee table that wasn’t particularly pretty and peered at it intently. ‘Gosh, this is lovely!’

  ‘Thanks,’ he said, bewildered.

  I bent a bit lower, as if I simply couldn’t study the Ming Dynasty, or even the Conran shop, unless I was low. Very low. My eyes shot up to the bedroom windows opposite. Yes, they were indeed even more visible, but it was so hard to tell if there was a proper line of sight, or if the top of the French windows precluded it. Susie Sharpe would know, but then again, she made a lot of it up. What I’d really like to do was go up to Ned’s old bedroom and have a look down. See how much I could see of their interior, but then we were only two stories: it was different. And there was no way I could pretend I’d left my purse in that room. The only way of telling would be to go round there, to that house, and somehow have a look.

  ‘I’ve taken up far too much of your time,’ I said, getting to my feet. ‘You must be getting back to your work. Remind me what it is you lecture in?’

  ‘Criminology.’

  The vase, still in my hands, slipped through my fingers and smashed on the coffee table. I gasped, horrified.

  ‘Oh God – I’m so sorry!’

  ‘No, don’t worry,’ he said, as I hastened to pick up the pieces. ‘It wasn’t anything special. Only an old Habitat thing and actually Agathe bought it so – oh Christ, now you’ve cut yourself.’ He sounded irritated, as well he might. This wretched, menopausal woman barging into his house, inspecting the roses for greenfly, peering round his study, picking up and breaking his possessions then bleeding on the glass coffee table. But criminology …

  He was leading me, rather firmly, by the elbow, to the kitchen, and had run the tap, under which I obligingly held my finger while he rummaged around in a drawer for a plaster.

  ‘Isn’t that the study of … criminals?’

  ‘Ten out of ten. At its most simplistic level. Although, to be more precise, it’s the scientific study of the nature, extent, management, causes, control and consequences of criminal behaviour.’

  ‘Consequences. You mean … prison?’

  He was rather awkwardly handing me a piece of kitchen towel, a slightly alarmed look in his eye. ‘Oh. Thanks.’ I duly wrapped it.

  ‘Well, on a very prosaic level, yes. Some sort of penal institution, or rehabilitation. But it’s not just about it being on an individual basis, but on a social one, too,’ he said irritably, understandably baulking at condensing his huge, learned field of study into one sentence.

  ‘Yes, I see. More than I appear to, actually, because I myself write detective novels. But although I do a lot of research, I’m never a hundred per cent sure I get my facts right. To be honest, Frankie – she’s my editor – isn’t always sure either. But we usually decide – if there’s some really obscure point of law we’re not sure about – that if we don’t know, and we’ve been doing it for yonks, the chances are our readership won’t either. I’m pretty lowbrow, by the way. So we just sort of fudge it. But you would know implicitly, I imagine?’

  He was handing me a plaster now. No way was he fixing it round crazy lady’s finger.

  ‘One would hope,’ he said rather pompously.

  ‘So how long, would you say, a case of unpremeditated manslaughter would get?’

  ‘Sorry?’

  ‘How long would someone get for that?’

  ‘Manslaughter, by definition, is unpremeditated.’

  ‘Yes. Of course it is.’

  ‘And it entirely depends on the circumstances.’

  I licked my very dry lips. ‘Suppose they were … very favourable. To the woman. I mean, the criminal. Or victim. No, criminal, obviously. Manslaughter person. Who by mistake … well, no, not mistake,’ I struggled. Regrouped. ‘Who by dint of her appalling circumstances failed to – you know – alert the police, to a dying body. Until it was dead. It’s for my book, obviously,’ I added quickly, but I was sweating. Could feel the dampness everywhere. Running down my back. ‘The one I’m doing at the moment. It’s about a woman married to a horrid man.’

  He smiled. ‘That really is a how-long-is-a-piece-of-string sort of question,’ he said, as I smoothed the plaster firmly round my finger, avoiding his eye. ‘It would totally depend on the circumstances. The extent of the duress, the physical or mental cruelty; but as you probably know, at least two women recently, who very definitely murdered their husbands, one with a hammer and one with a knife, were allowed to walk free. So for the purposes of your plot line, I’d say someone who committed manslaughter by failing to provide another person with access to medical assistance, as long as his wounds had not been inflicted by her, could credibly be acquitted.’ He must have seen the relief flood my face, some beatific light fill my eyes. ‘For the purposes of fiction,’ he added, nervously. He was looking at me carefully.

  ‘Oh, yes. Yes,’ I agreed quickly. ‘For the purposes of fiction. And, when you say acquitted, it would definitely go to court?’

  ‘Definitely. You can’t just run around killing people. Even if there are mitigating circumstances.’

  ‘No. No, of course not.’ I realized my mouth was very dry. ‘Could I possibly trouble you for a glass of water?’

  ‘Of course.’

  He ran the tap until it was cold, got a glass from the cupboard, filled it and passed it to me. As I drank, I was aware of his dark eyes upon me. Curious but kind eyes. I put the glass down carefully, keen not to break anything else. The first time he’d met me I’d broken
a milk jug, but luckily he seemed to have forgotten. I don’t suppose I made much impression either way.

  ‘Thank you,’ I told him, making myself meet his steady gaze. ‘You’ve been very helpful.’

  He followed me to the door. ‘Are you going to be all right to drive? You look a bit …’

  ‘Oh yes, I’ll be fine. Thank you.’ I forced a bright smile.

  ‘And I hope you find your purse.’

  He saw me look startled. He’d said it gently, however, not with any low cunning. I swallowed. ‘Yes. Thank you.’

  I turned and went down the steps to my car. It was around the corner, on a meter, now that I no longer had a permit. I didn’t look back, but I was aware of the door not having closed, because I knew the sharp click it made, however softly you tried to shut it. And trust me, I’d tried many times. So I knew he was still on the top step, watching me as I walked away.

  16

  I resisted the temptation to go round to the house at the back, knock on the door, and under the spurious guise of a neighbour with a carpet moth invasion ask to see her top-floor bedrooms, since strangely, those were the only ones affected in mine and my immediate neighbour’s house, and we wondered if it was endemic and the work of some well-drilled moth army who started at the top and worked down? I resisted, because although I hadn’t believed Amanda, I realized the last thing I needed to do was draw attention to myself. I was calming down a bit. Gaining a sense of perspective. It wasn’t that the view from the study had been in any way definitive or had eased my mind; more that speaking to a rational human being had made me realize I was overreacting here. Fear was often born of wild imaginings, I knew that. The mind was capable of terrible tricks, but the great thing was, to resist them. I felt a lot more like my old self having talked to Josh. I did feel very cold, though; shivery now that the rivers of sweat had dried, and I turned the car heating on full. As I wound my way through the London traffic I reached into the glove compartment and found the last remaining toffee. I sucked it, realizing I’d barely touched my lunch.

  It had occurred to me, though, that moth notion; and I wondered, as I crawled in heavy traffic up the Fulham Palace Road, if that was what got me into so much trouble. My vivid imagination. Because even as Michael lay dying at my feet, one of those very cases Josh had mentioned, the wife with the hammer, had occurred to me too and I’d already visualized myself turning up in court, flanked by my white faced, supportive children, in a plain, navy blue suit and cream shirt, although not entirely plain, perhaps with some sort of detail on the collar. A scalloped edge, maybe. That’s how far ahead of myself I can get. How far into another world. Interesting, though, that as I’d sat there, picturing the court case, I’d still considered it to be worth it. Letting him go. Even as I imagined the consequences. Would I do it again? Fail to call for medical assistance? I honestly don’t think I can answer that. Yes, probably. It was just such a relief to be without him, you see. Waking up every morning and not feeling afraid.

  There was a toot behind me. The lights had gone green. It was only to sit in stationary traffic again, however, in a long queue for the Hammersmith roundabout, so I reached for my bag, retrieved my phone and surreptitiously checked my texts. Imo. Wondering how it had gone with Amanda and hoping I hadn’t caved in over the memorial service. I glanced around to check for police, then texted back:

  ‘It was as ghastly as you predicted. She’s going ahead with it with or without us.’

  A message came back immediately:

  ‘Without us.’

  I felt a ridiculous wave of relief, as if somehow we might escape, but texted back:

  ‘Won’t that look really odd?’

  ‘What – like we did away with him or something?’

  Flustered, I tossed the phone on to the passenger seat. The traffic was still at a standstill, though. After a bit I retrieved it. I texted:

  ‘Am driving. Can’t talk.’

  I put it back in my bag, knowing it was on silent if she rang.

  In an ideal world, I’d have seen both of my children while in London and that had indeed been my intention: to text and see if they were free for supper later. Imo worked very late in her new job, worryingly so, into the early hours sometimes, but she might have snuck out, and then the three of us could have gone to the Italian we liked. Except, this wasn’t an ideal world, far from it, and the last thing I wanted right now was to see their dear faces. I couldn’t relay the lunch to them in full, tell them what Amanda had accused me of, so I would have to lie, and I didn’t want to do that. I could have just stuck to the memorial service, lied by omission, and tomorrow I would, when I rang them. But it was all too recent; too immediate now. And supper was so intimate; they’d see my face, guess at something else, maybe. The phone was better, and tomorrow I’d lie my socks off as I had done for years.

  I was quite used to that. Protecting them. As much as I could. And I’d listen to Imo’s outrage at Amanda’s preposterous behaviour, and Ned’s calmer take on things, with more of an understanding of his aunt’s state of mind, having seen a lot of it in his line of work. My son’s job in a huge, diverse and sometimes troubled inner city parish, with a congregation of over 400, was often more therapist/social worker/psychiatric nurse than vicar, it seemed to me. They’d both know I’d had a grim time, though: that I’d been taken back to that familiar ghastly place, and they’d be concerned.

  I drove on. Josh’s awkward concern had been equally touching, and I wondered what on earth he must think of me. Not that it mattered, of course. He was far more intelligent than me, quite the professor when he got going about his subject, despite the shabby chic exterior. Or perhaps that accounted for it. Nevertheless, I hoped I hadn’t come across as too barking. I decided I probably had.

  When I reached my parents’ house, I passed a sleek black car parked outside in the lane, with the Millers’ chauffeur, Ron, fast asleep at the wheel. I recognized him from years ago: it had always been a source of amusement, the fact that we knew people with a chauffeur. Bugger, were they still here? I turned in at the gates. A couple of white vans were parked just inside, and scaffolding scrambled up one side of the cottage. Good. That was something, at least. The builders had made a start. Presumably they were beginning at the top and working down, patching the roof, which they’d told me was in dire need of attention. Jerry, who I’d liked enormously when I’d met him, and who had a quiet efficiency about him, was climbing down from a ladder, while his mate, Tod, was packing away their tools in steel boxes. As I got out of the car, they saw me and grinned.

  ‘Good luck!’ called Jerry, jerking his head towards Mum and Dad’s house.

  ‘Sorry?’ I shut my car door.

  ‘They’ve had a bit of a do,’ he called cheerily.

  I went rigid. ‘A bit of a …’

  I hastened towards the house. The front door was on the latch and I hurried through. Music was playing loudly, some old Nina Simone jazz. As I went through to the sitting room, my father was on the other side of the room by the stereo, crooning along to it at full volume, whilst Nancy danced. Nancy. What the hell was she doing here? Well, I say danced; she was swaying, actually – eyes half shut, turban askew, cigarette holder in hand, although there didn’t seem to be a cigarette in it. Horizontal on a sofa, fast asleep, was Bertie. He had a napkin over his eyes, his mouth was open and he was snoring gustily. All around was the detritus of a lunch party: empty glasses, cheese plates and overflowing ashtrays.

  Dad hailed me from over by the stereo system where he was clearly DJ. ‘Darling! Come and join us!’

  ‘Where’s Mum?’ I shouted.

  ‘Upstairs, getting something for Hetty.’

  He went back to his crooning, but unable to resist showing off now he had an audience, he sashayed across – as much as he was able – to sweep Nance into his arms. They waltzed, extremely unsteadily, around the room, giving me cheeky grins as they passed.

  I forced a grin back. Dumping my bag, I went out to the hall and po
pped my head into the dining room before I went upstairs. The white linen tablecloth, soaked with red wine, had been propped up like a tent with two glasses underneath to stop it wetting the table. It was always my father’s Heath Robinson solution to a spillage, although in practice it solved nothing. In the old days my mother would summon the French polisher the following day, but these days, they lived with the stains. A bowl of trifle seemed to have fallen off the table and Hector was busy licking it. I took it from him before he took the pattern off the bowl, simultaneously spotting – oh God, Mum’s teeth. He’d licked those pristine clean too. I thought better of putting them on the table, realizing my mother could easily pick them up and pop them in her mouth, as had been witnessed one Christmas, and instead, put them in my pocket. Back in the hall I took the stairs two at a time and flew down the corridor to my parents’ room.

  My mother was flat on her back on the bed, fast asleep, snoring quietly. Her lipstick was smudged, hair in disarray, and she had eye make-up all down one cheek. Other than that, she looked fine, however. She even had a slight smile on her face as she slumbered. She also appeared to be clutching a blue silk skirt. No Hetty. I popped into all the other bedrooms, came back and gently shook Mum awake.

  ‘Mum. Mum?’

  She came round, blearily. ‘Darling,’ she murmured. ‘Such fun.’

  ‘Mum, where’s Hetty?’

  ‘Downstairs. Had a bit of an accident. Came up to get her a skirt.’ She passed it to me, together with some clean knickers. Then her eyes shut and she went back to sleep again.

  Oh right. That sort of accident. I took the skirt and knickers and raced downstairs. No doubt my mother, on her helpful mission, and on the point of going back down, had been unable to resist the lure of the bed. There was no sign of Hetty in the drawing room which my parents never used these days, or in the kitchen, and I was beginning to get a bit panicky. But as I pushed open the door to the laundry room, there she was, naked from the waist down.