by Tim Ellis
‘It comes from Ireland. A lot of our names come from there, you know. I’ve got custard creams, chocolate bourbons or chocolate fingers.’
‘A custard cream, please.’
‘Oh, you get more than one biscuit in my house, Rodney. I know how to treat the right man.’
He gave her a weak smile.
‘I just haven’t found the right man yet.’
She brought out a tray full of cups, saucers, jugs and custard creams, poured the tea and said, ‘Help yourself to sugar, milk and custard creams.’
Another feeling began to burrow into his consciousness. He was being sized up, assessed, interviewed for the position of Mr Howe. Maybe he should go to the church and ask the Vicar about little Sally Tomkins . . .’
‘I’ve had seven husbands so far . . .’
He nearly choked on a custard cream. ‘Seven?’
‘I know it sounds a lot, but most of them didn’t last very long.’
He swallowed and wondered whether he should drink the tea. ‘When you say they didn’t last long . . .’
‘I got rid of them. They had no idea how to treat a woman. What about you, Rodney?’
‘No, I’m not husband material.’ “Got rid of them!” What did she mean by that? If he took a stroll down to the cemetery would he find their graves all lined up numbered 1 – 7? He had to get out of there – he imagined himself as number eight – worms slithering in through his ears and out through his eye sockets. ‘I’ve been living on my own for too long. Far too fond of my own company.’
‘What about sex?’
‘I’m sorry?’
‘Well, a man needs sex, and plenty of it. I know that, and you know that. How do you get yours, Rodney?’
‘I’m afraid . . .’
‘A woman needs sex as well. It’s been a while since my last husband passed away.’
He stood up. ‘Maybe I should ask the Vicar about Sally Tomkins.’
‘Feel free. He’s only been here a couple of years.’
He sat back down again.
‘The only one who knows what really happened in 17 Fyrsway is a certain lady newsagent in need of a generous dose of sex. You must decide whether you want to know that truth or not. If you don’t, I have postage stamps to count. Well, Rodney?’
What choice did he have? He needed to know the truth about Sally Tomkins. Sheila Howe was the only one who possessed that truth. It was a fairly straightforward decision. He had to do his duty, he had to stand up and be counted, he had to stick his head above the parapet, he had to . . .
She wasn’t his ideal woman. She wasn’t Deidre Fishlock or Anastasia Scripps, but she was reasonably pretty in a blubbery sort of way. At one time, when she’d been younger and thinner, he imagined that she’d turned a few heads.
‘What do you want me to do?’
She laughed like a person holding a Royal Flush and eyeing a mountain of money in the centre of the table. ‘I hope that’s a rhetorical question, Rodney?’
He glanced at the carriage clock wedged between two dolls on the sideboard. The time was five to three. It had taken him an hour and forty-five minutes to reach Fairlight Cove from Bermondsey. If he was going to be back at the Hand and Marigold by seven o’clock to meet Anastasia for dinner and afters, he needed to leave by – at the very latest – five o’clock. Earlier if he could, otherwise he’d get snarled up in the rush hour traffic.
He’d get away before then he was sure. He certainly wasn’t renowned for his longevity where sex was concerned, and it had been quite a while since he’d had any type of sexual relationship with a woman – it was likely he could finish and be on his way back to Bermondsey by twenty past three, which would give him plenty of time to have a shower, a shave and splash some aftershave on.
She led him into her boudoir like a sacrificial lamb.
If she’d been satisfied with his first effort, he could have kept to his estimate of timings, but she wasn’t satisfied – not by a long chalk. The second attempt was a bit better. At least she was breathing heavy.
‘One more for the road, Rodney,’ she said.
‘I’m done in.’
‘Are you a man or a mouse?’
‘Probably a mouse.’
‘Third time lucky,’ she said.
It was.
She shuddered as if Howe’s Newsagents in Fairlight Cove was the epicentre of an earthquake.
‘Not bad,’ she said. ‘I’m looking for another husband.’
‘I’m flattered, but I’m not the marrying kind.’
They lay next to each other in Sheila Howe’s double bed like patients in a consumption ward.
‘I suppose you want to know what happened at 17 Fyrsway now, don’t you?’
‘If you’d be so kind.’
‘Leonard and Fanny Tomkins were found by a next door neighbour hanging side by side by their necks in the kitchen holding hands. Nooses had been fashioned out of thick rope and looped over large metal hooks in the ceiling that used to be used for the old airing racks in bygone days. Chairs were upturned on the floor to make it look as though they’d committed suicide . . .’
‘What do you mean: “Made it look as though”? Didn’t they commit suicide?’
‘Oh, that’s what it was classified as, but I’m positive it was made to look like a suicide.’
‘You saw them?’
‘I was the next door neighbour who found them – a few husbands before I married Ernie Howe the newsagent.’
‘And you think it was murder?
‘It had all the hallmarks of a suicide pact, and that’s what the authorities concluded.’
‘What made you think it wasn’t?’
‘They would never have left little Sally on her own – they loved that child, and the chairs were too small.’
‘Weren’t the police called?’
‘No, everybody thought it was a suicide.’
‘Why?’
‘The Tomkins’ were in financial difficulties.’
‘Any suicide notes?’
‘No.’
‘Why didn’t you call the police yourself?’
‘Something wasn’t quite right, but I couldn’t put my finger on it. Two days after the ambulance had taken them away, I went back into their kitchen. Everybody had each other’s keys in those days, you see. The chairs were still lying sideways on the floor, so I picked them up. It was then that I realised they were too small for Leonard and Fanny to have done what they did. I knew then that someone must have killed them.’
‘Who?’
Sheila shrugged. ‘It’s a mystery.’
‘What about Sally?’
‘Well, as I said, she was taken into care. I don’t know what happened to her after that.’
Rodney looked at his watch. It was twenty to five. I’d better get going.
‘One more for the road?’
‘Haven’t we done that already?’
She sat astride him. ‘I don’t recall that.’
‘You have a serious problem with your short-term memory, Sheila Howe.’
She grinned as she manoeuvred him into her. ‘I know. It’s a condition that seems to have bamboozled the medical specialists.’
Chapter Eighteen
It was fucking positive! How was that possible? Her heart was beating like the clappers.
She re-read the instructions.
‘What the hell is a “False Positive”?’
A false positive test is rare.
‘How rare?’
She turned the paper this-a-way and that-a-way, but couldn’t find any statistics. There are instances and conditions when they can occur.
‘When?’
Chemical pregnancy?
‘No.’
Missed reaction time?
‘No.’
Chemical interference?.
‘No.’
A urine evaporation line?
She examined the test area again. ‘No.’
A false positive is a one off case and
a positive pregnancy test is a pretty good indication that you’re pregnant.
‘For fuck’s sake!’
She washed in the footbath – she didn’t believe in speaking French words when English ones would do – dried herself, pulled up her knickers and jeans, threw the useless test-kit in the waste bin and washed her shaking hands.
She needed to buy another test-kit. They were going to think she was fucking crazy in that chemist. And she swore she’d never set foot in that place ever again. Was there another chemist close by? If there was, she didn’t know about it.
Somewhere in the house, she could hear the housekeeper – Janet Thomas – still clattering about. The smell of polish and disinfectant was a definite improvement on baby shit and vomit.
‘How’s it going?’ she said to Thomas when she spilled into the hallway carrying a mop and bucket.
‘Yes, very well. I’m cleaning . . .’
‘Good,’ she cut her off. As if she wanted to know the details of the what, how and when of her cleaning schedule. ‘If I find any dirt, you’ll be the first to know about it.’
She stuck her head into Duffy’s room – she wasn’t there. ‘Where are you, Duffy?’
‘The living room,’ Duffy’s voice came back to her.
‘How did you manage to peel that mattress off your back?’ she asked her as she walked into the living room.
Duffy was stretched out on the sofa reading a magazine with her feet on a cushion. ‘It was very hard, but I couldn’t stand the noise of the vacuum cleaner.’
‘You should get up and do some exercise.’
‘I don’t think so.’
‘What about post-natal classes?’
‘No thank you.’
‘Are you still breast-feeding Máire?’
‘No.’
‘Why not?’
‘SMA.’
‘What’s that?’
‘Milk with attitude.’
‘Okay. I’m going to the pharmacy.’
‘Haven’t you already been there today?’
‘I thought you were asleep.’
‘I was.’
‘Yeah well.’
‘You’re pregnant, aren’t you?’
‘Shut your filthy mouth, Duffy.’
She stormed out,
Fuck! How had Duffy guessed?
Pansy waved as she headed towards the gate. ‘Yoo-hoo, Miss Lucy.’
The garden looked a million times better, but that crazy bitch was really getting on her nerves. Thank fuck she appeared only once a month.
‘You again?’ the spotty-faced young man said when she stood at the counter in the chemist.
‘You again?’ she threw back at him.
‘What do you want?’
‘If you make any comment on what I’m about to ask you for, I’m going to leap over the counter and rip your throat out with my teeth.’
He simply stared at her.
‘Two First Response pregnancy test-kits.’
‘Two?’
‘Two.’
‘False positive eh?’
She lifted her knee up as if she was about to climb over the counter, even though it would have been simpler just to walk round it. ‘What the fuck do you know about false positives?’
‘You said not to make any comment.’
‘It’s too late for that – you already did. And before I relieve you of your throat, you have the opportunity to tell me everything you know about false positives.’
‘They come in.’
‘Who do?’
‘Women like you.’
‘Oh yeah?’
‘Not as hot as you.’
‘Keep going.’
‘The first time they buy one test-kit.’
‘Yeah.’
‘The second time they buy another one complaining that they got a false positive.’
‘Okay.’
‘Then they come in a third time and buy another test-kit because now they got a positive and a negative, and they think that the best out of three will make everything just whoopee do.’
‘Are you saying it’s a scam?’
‘I ain’t qualified to say anything like that. I just work here for the minimum wage.’
‘I’ve decided to let you keep your throat.’
‘I’m overwhelmed.’
‘So?’
‘So what?’
‘So give me the two test-kits.’
‘You still want them after everything I’ve said?’
‘Have you discovered an alternative method of testing?’
‘No, but if you find that you’re not pregnant, I can offer my services.’
‘Is that how you supplement your minimum wage?’
‘I hadn’t thought of that – it’s an idea.’
‘Just give me the test kits.’
He put them in a small plastic bag displaying “Mutton’s Pharmacy” on the side and passed the bag across the counter. ‘Forty-five pounds, please.’
‘Two test-kits at nineteen pounds each make thirty-eight pounds.’
‘They’ve gone up. They’re now twenty-two pounds fifty each.’
‘You’re fucking joking?’
‘I’m sorry. I just follow orders. The boss says put the price up, I put the price up.’
‘Get me the boss.’
‘Gone to lunch.’
‘It’s the middle of the afternoon.’
‘A late lunch.’
She smiled and gave him two twenties and a ten. ‘Keep the change.’
‘If you’re interested – I’m an experienced test-kit assistant.’
She left the pharmacy.
Best out of three it was then.
‘Yoo-hoo, Miss Lucy.’ Pansy called.
She waved back, and then decided to offer a few words of encouragement. ‘You’re doing a terrific job, Pansy.’
‘Thanks for saying so, Miss Lucy.’
Inside, she headed for the toilet again.
***
Before he went down to the mortuary to see Dr Solberg he bought a big bunch of roses at the florists, and visited Ruth and Luke on the Maternity Ward.
‘You don’t love me anymore,’ Ruth said when she saw him and burst into tears.
He leaned over and held her tight. ‘What could possibly make you think I don’t love the mother of my son?’
‘It has been two days . . .’
‘I came to see you last night. You were asleep. I left you a note.’
‘Where? I have seen no note.’
‘On top of the bedside cabinet.’ He looked for it, but couldn’t see anything. He opened the little doors on the side and found the scrap of paper inside. ‘There,’ he said, passing it to her.’
She read it and cried.
‘Now what?’
‘You love me.’
He smiled. ‘Of course I love you. How are you holding up?’
‘I feel terrible.’
‘In what way?’
‘You don’t want to know.’
‘I do.’
‘I don’t want to tell you.’
‘Ah. How’s Luke?’
‘He is fine. He eats, he sleeps, he makes a lot of noise and he smells.’
‘That’s what babies do.’
She screwed up her face. ‘I do not know how I managed before you came along.’
‘Feel free to ask for my help at any time.’
‘Are Duffy and Lucy coming to see me?’
‘It’s been a bit hectic.’
She burst into tears again. ‘They don’t love me.’
‘Of course they do. They’ll be here tonight.’
‘Are you sure?’
‘I’ll bring them myself.’
‘Thank you for the flowers.’
‘You’re welcome. How are your swollen ankles?’
She moved her left leg out from under the covers.
‘It’s not swollen anymore.’
‘Now that I am not pregnant, everything is good.’
‘No more babies for you.’
Tears gushed from her eyes. ‘You don’t think I am pretty anymore.’
He hugged her. ‘I think you’re one of the prettiest women on the planet. I didn’t mean no more sex. Just no more babies if it’s going to endanger your health.’
She pulled his hand under the covers and put it on her thigh. ‘Have you got time now?’
He laughed. ‘I think your body needs time to recover before we start that again. And no, I haven’t got time. I need to go down to the mortuary.’
Tears began flowing again. ‘You only came to see me because you were here anyway.’
‘Of course I did, but if I hadn’t already been coming here I would have made the trip especially to see you.’ He leaned over and kissed her on the lips. ‘I’ll bring Duffy and Lucy tonight.’
‘Bring my laptop as well. Pregnancy has turned my brain to jelly. I must do some work.’
‘What do you know about right-wing groups?’
‘Not much.’
‘That might be something to get your teeth into.’
‘Is that what you are involved in now?’
‘Yes. We’ll talk more tonight. Lucy’s also got her sticky little fingers into them as well.’
He made his way down to the mortuary.
Dr Solberg wasn’t alone.
‘I’m not interrupting, am I?’ he said as he walked into the dissecting room.
‘They are here to see you,’ Solberg said. She wasn’t wearing her scrubs and looked decidedly scrumptious.
‘Oh?’
He looked the two men over. The older one had greying black hair, glasses and the start of a patchy beard. The younger of the two was shorter and fatter with long blond hair combed back from a receding hairline.
The older man stepped forward. ‘DI Raif Denktash from East Barnet.’ He offered his hand.
Quigg shook it and said, ‘DI Quigg from Hammersmith.’
‘And this is my partner DS John Ainsworth,’ Denktash said indicating the blond-haired man.
He shook the sergeant’s hand as well. ‘And you want to know why I want the report on one of your victims, and what I know about the murders?’