by Mark Timlin
‘Where do you live?’ I said.
‘Chelsea.’
‘I should have guessed.’
‘Why didn’t you then?’ She was as spikey as a hedgehog. That turned me on too.
‘What’s the address?’ I asked.
She told me, and I wrote it next to her phone number in Wanda’s book. ‘I’ll call round for you. Is there any particular place you’d like to go?’
She told me. At the mention of the restaurant’s name my Access card gave a shudder. ‘We can walk there from here,’ she said.
That would be the only economy of the evening. ‘I’ll book a table,’ I said. ‘Eight o’clock?’
‘Suits me.’
‘Am I invited for cocktails before dinner?’ I was getting daring.
She considered it. I could hear her breathing down the phone and I wished that I could taste her breath again. ‘Sure, why not? Seven suit you?’
‘I’ll be there,’ I said. Try and keep me away, I thought. I really was a glutton for punishment.
‘See you later then,’ she said. ‘Bye now.’ And she hung up.
21
I put the receiver down, put on my jacket, went downstairs to the car and drove to Epsom. The road I wanted was on the outskirts of the town. I had to ask three people before someone knew its whereabouts. It was part of a new estate, a bungalow at the end of a row of similar single-storeyed houses. Next to a building site that looked like the crew had downed tools one lunchtime and never gone back. The development was all too raw and freshly landscaped for my taste, but what do I know?
One thing I did know was that I was at the right place. There was a dark blue Mini with a disabled sticker in the windscreen, parked in the short drive in front of the garage. A look inside showed the controls had been altered for someone who couldn’t use their legs. Also, it was the only house in the road with a ramp running up to the front door instead of steps. I walked up it and rang the bell. It was at knee height. I stood there for a minute, then rang again. I heard a woman’s voice from the other side of the front door.
‘Who is it?’ she called.
‘Nick Sharman,’ I replied.
‘That means nothing to me.’
‘You should check your machine,’ I said. ‘I called and left several messages a few weeks ago. And I called again last night.’
‘What about?’
‘David Kellerman.’
There was a long silence. ‘Who are you?’ she asked eventually.
‘I’m a private detective from London. I’m working for James Webb, Kellerman’s brother-in-law, looking into the circumstances of the murders. Listen, do I have to shout through the door? I don’t want to discuss it like this. Why don’t you let me in?’ Silence again.
Then there was a rattle of chains, and the sound of locks turning, and the door opened. In front of me was a woman in a wheelchair. About twenty-five. Brown hair. A heart-shaped face that showed no emotion. Dead eyes. A body shrouded in a big cardigan so that you couldn’t tell if she was fat or thin, and legs covered with a Black Watch Tartan blanket.
‘What do you want?’ she asked.
‘To talk.’
‘About Mr Kellerman? Why? Why now? It’s been such a long time. What do you want to talk about? Has something happened?’
I only answered her last question. ‘No, nothing’s happened. That’s why James Webb hired me.’
‘So why are you here?’ She emphasised the last word.
‘Like I said, to talk to you.’
‘What do you want to talk about?’
‘About anything you know.’
‘I know nothing,’ she said.
‘You worked for Kellerman.’
‘So?’
‘So maybe you can help me.’
‘I doubt it.’
‘Can I come in anyway?’
‘How do I know?’ she asked.
I didn’t get her drift. ‘What?’
‘That you are who you say you are.’
‘You don’t,’ I said, and took my wallet from my inside jacket pocket and one of my cards from inside it. I gave the card to her. She took it in one of her strong hands, with short, unvarnished nails and fingers devoid of rings, and as she read it she creased the card.
‘This means nothing,’ she said.
‘What does?’ I asked. ‘But I am who it says I am. Telephone James Webb if you don’t believe me. I just want to talk to you for a few minutes. I’m not here to hurt you, Miss Hooper. Just a few questions and I’ll be gone.’
I thought she was going to refuse. Then she said, ‘If you must,’ and wheeled the chair out of my way. I stepped into the hall and closed the door behind me. ‘The police questioned me several times when it all happened. Why dig it all up again?’ she said.
‘The police haven’t solved the case. James Webb asked me to look into it again, independently.’ I didn’t tell her about Stan McKilkenney and the fact that the case was live again.
‘What good does asking me the same questions all over again do?’ she asked dully.
‘They might not be the same questions,’ I said.
‘You’d better come through,’ she said, and wheeled herself backwards down the hall and through a wide doorway into a sitting room. I followed. No patio doors here. Just a window looking over a patch of garden that was black dirt. She nodded at a dark blue velvet-covered armchair. I used it.
‘Do you want a cup of tea?’ she asked.
‘Yes,’ I said. ‘I’ll make it if you like.’
‘Don’t be ridiculous,’ she said. ‘I am capable, you know. Especially of making a cup of bloody tea.’ For the first time her eyes showed some sign of life.
‘One sugar,’ I said.
She wheeled herself into the kitchen that opened straight off the sitting room with no connecting door. All the work surfaces were at wheelchair height. I noticed that all the switches and plug sockets in the sitting room were the same. The inside of the place had been custom built for a disabled person. Expensive. Especially for a secretary who had time to visit her late employer’s house regularly on working days and was at home on a weekday afternoon.
‘Where did the police question you?’ I asked.
‘At the office twice, and once at the police station.’
‘Not here?’
‘No.’
‘But you were living here then?’
‘I’d just moved in.’
‘Nice place.’
‘It does me.’
‘Where were you living before?’
‘At home with my mum and dad.’
‘Why did you move?’
‘They were too restrictive. They treated me like a kid. I wanted some freedom.’
‘Are you working now?’
‘No. I’m on the social.’
‘You didn’t bother getting another job?’
‘Bother? Christ! Jobs aren’t that easy to get, not for people like me. Not all employers are as understanding as David was.’
It was David now, I noticed. Not Mr Kellerman. I sat in the chair and watched her in the kitchen as she boiled the kettle, made the tea, and poured out two cups from the pot.
‘Come and get your tea,’ she said.
I did, and went back to the chair and put the cup and saucer on a table beside it. She fitted a small tray on to one of the arms of the wheelchair, and put her own cup and saucer on it. Then wheeled herself back into the sitting room and manoeuvred the chair until she was facing me from the other side of the dead fireplace.
‘Have you got any cigarettes?’ she asked. ‘I haven’t been out today.’
‘Sure,’ I said, and took a packet of Silk Cut and my lighter from my jacket pocket. She pushed herself forward and took one. I lit it for her. She wheeled back to the other side of the fireplace and sipped at her tea. I lit a cigarette for myself. ‘Do you have an ashtray?’ I asked.
‘In the kitchen on the draining board. There’s two. Bring me one, will you?’ I went and got them
. A matching pair from Harrods. I didn’t know where to put hers. ‘On my lap,’ she said. I put one of the ashtrays on the blanket. It was an oddly intimate thing to do. I put the other ashtray on the arm of my chair and sat down again.
She smoked and looked at me. I smoked and looked at her, and the smoke was like a grey veil between us.
‘How long did you work for Kellerman?’ I asked.
‘Three years.’
‘Before that?’
‘Secretarial college.’
‘First job?’
‘Only job.’
‘You were his private secretary?’
‘PA.’
‘So you knew everything that went on?’
‘I don’t follow.’
‘Somebody killed him, his wife and two children. I’ve seen the photos. It wasn’t pleasant. Someone didn’t like him, to put it mildly. You worked for him. You might know that someone.’
‘I don’t think I know anyone who could do a thing like that.’
‘He owed money,’ I said.
‘Who doesn’t? Business was bad at the end. Recession, you know. It hit the retail sector badly. He had a big overdraft. His business wasn’t the only one. And I’m sure it’s just as bad for small businesses now, if not worse.’
‘I spoke to your old accountant. He wasn’t very forthcoming. But he did tell me that he thought there was more money around than there should have been. And then suddenly, nothing.’
‘I’m afraid I don’t know anything about that.’
‘I know there were bank loans,’ I said. ‘Were there any private ones? Loan sharks who wanted their money back and took it in kind with shotguns, when they found out that the business was going bust?’
‘I told you, I don’t know.’
‘You should do, being his PA.’
‘I didn’t know everything about him.’
I changed tack. ‘Did he have a girlfriend?’ I asked. She went white and dropped her cigarette. It rolled across the carpet towards me. I leant over and picked it up, then gave it back to her. When our fingers touched I felt an electric shock, like static. I could tell she felt it too.
‘What do you mean?’ she asked.
‘Was he screwing around?’
‘No. He was a good man.’
‘Give me a break. Did he have a woman on the side? A married woman maybe, and the husband turned out to be more than Kellerman could handle?’
‘No.’
‘You seem sure for someone who “didn’t know everything about him”,’ I said.
‘I keep telling you, I don’t know. The police went through this with me several times.’
‘What policeman?’ I asked.
‘I can’t remember.’
‘Robber?’ I asked. ‘Inspector Robber.’
‘That was him,’ she said. ‘A nasty man. He gave me the creeps.’
‘You and a million others.’
She stubbed out her cigarette and leant down and put the ashtray on the fireplace.
As I watched her I knew I was missing something. Something important. I looked around the room. In one corner, up close to the ceiling, a tiny spider was spinning a web. It swung on its silken thread back and forth. For a second or two I watched it building a trap for the unwary.
‘He said you were stupid,’ I said.
‘Who?’
‘The Inspector.’
‘Did he?’
‘Yes, he did. In fact, he called you a poor, twisted, stupid spastic as I recall. A raspberry ripple. Do you know what that means?’
‘Yes, I do. How nice of him.’
She didn’t change her expression, but she went whiter if that were possible, and I saw that her hands were trembling. She saw me looking, and clasped them together to keep them still. I felt like a bastard putting her through it. But I kept on: ‘I expect you’re used to that, though, looking the way you do.’
‘What way’s that?’ Her voice was thick.
‘Plain, dowdy and put upon. At least, that’s the impression you gave Robber. Stupid. Twisted up. But you’re not, are you?’
‘Aren’t I?’
‘None of those things. Not poor either. Not by the looks of this place. Who paid for it?’
‘That’s none of your business. I think you should go now.’
‘Is that right?’ I said.
‘Yes.’
‘And if I don’t?’
‘I’ll call the police.’
‘Why don’t you call Robber? Get him over here. I’m sure he’d love to renew his acquaintanceship with you after all this time. Ask you how come you’ve got a nice place like this, on what the government pays.’
She looked over at the telephone and then back to me. ‘Why are you persecuting me?’
‘I’m not. I just resent you treating me as if I’m as stupid as you’d like everyone to think you are. You’re a bit out of practice, Miss Hooper. You’re not doing the job very well today.’
‘What?’ Her eyes blazed and colour came back into her skin and she wasn’t half bad-looking.
‘You’re not stupid at all, are you?’
‘Not as stupid as your friend Robber. He only saw the chair, not who was in it.’
‘Robber is no friend of mine, believe me. So did Kellerman pay for all this? Is this where the money went?’
‘I paid for it.’
‘With what? Your Giro?’
‘I’ve got private means.’
‘Prove it.’
‘I don’t have to. Not to you.’
‘Maybe to the police. The case isn’t closed. Never will be.’
She looked at me again. ‘David is dead and that’s an end to it,’ she said.
‘I smiled. ‘No,’ I said. ‘Not an end at all.’
‘What do you mean?’
I changed tack again. ‘Do you visit the grave?’ I asked.
‘What grave?’
‘The Kellerman family’s.’
‘No.’
‘I bet you do. I have. Twice. It’s a sad place.’
‘Graves usually are.’
‘Not always.’
‘Why should I go there anyway?’ I knew she’d have to ask.
‘You visit his house,’ I said.
She looked shocked. ‘No,’ she said.
‘Yes, you do.’
‘I don’t.’ But it was a weak denial.
‘I saw you,’ I said. ‘I didn’t know it was you at the time, but I saw you.’
‘Rubbish!’
‘It was your car. And I’m not the only one. The old boy who prunes the roses over the road has seen you too. Every couple of weeks since the police left, he says.’
She bowed her head and I could see her scalp, pale and clean-looking, in the parting in her brown hair. ‘I told you, he was a good man.’
It suddenly clicked. It shouldn’t have taken so long. I was out of practice. ‘Were you lovers?’ I asked.
She looked up and there were tears in her eyes. ‘And if we were?’
I didn’t answer.
Her top lip curled scornfully. ‘Or isn’t that allowed in your world? Only people with perfect bodies can make love, is that it? Does it embarrass you, or turn you on a little bit?’
I didn’t answer again. I sensed a tide of pent-up emotion behind the cardigan and the sensible hair and the lack of make up and jewellery. I’d felt it first when I put the ashtray on her lap and again when our hands had touched. I wanted that emotion out in the open.
That’s what I miss most about being a copper. A real copper. A detective. Asking questions. Being nice, or being nasty. Sometimes both. Digging out things that other people can’t see. Things that other people want to keep hidden. People a lot smarter than I’ll ever be. I was good at it. Excellent. It’s a gift. I had it. It’s like another sense. I knew what made people tick. What they loved and what they feared. I knew what buttons to press and sometimes it scared the shit out of me.
I was a Detective Constable for a long time. And I passed
my Sergeant’s exams too. But my interim reports were always lousy.
It didn’t worry me. I didn’t want promotion. I wanted to sit in little rooms that stank of fear and fags and feet, and look deep into people’s insides and dredge out emotions they sometimes didn’t even know they had themselves. That’s power, and I had it.
A DC is the best job on the force. No responsibilities – not many, anyway. Not much money either. That’s the trouble. Not that you can’t make it up. I did. I justified it by pretending it didn’t matter. But it did. It lost me the power. When I think of those people who turned me bent. Those fuckers with the envelopes full of high-denomination currency. Those bastards with their ‘Take the money and go away and play, little man’ attitudes. Those shitheads who just love having a copper in their pockets. The ones who knew I had the power and took it away. When I think of them, I want to get all the money I took and go back and mash it down their throats until they choke. They took everything I valued and trod all over it in their handmade Italian shoes. And I let them.
The silence stretched and I looked at her. Always let them speak first, that’s one of the rules. And they always do.
‘Well, does it?’ she asked.
I shrugged.
‘He said I had a beautiful body. Can you believe that? He was the only man who’s ever said that to me. Beautiful legs. Even though they’re dead. Do you want to see?’ She pushed the rug off her knees. Underneath she was wearing a long skirt buttoned up the front. She pulled it up. She was wearing short woollen socks but her legs were bare. Bare and blue-white and cold-looking. But he had been right, they were beautiful. She slapped one knee and it sounded like she’d slapped a piece of meat. ‘Not bad, are they?’ she said. ‘Pity they don’t work. Everything else does. Want to see?’ She pulled the skirt higher.
I felt ashamed. ‘Stop,’ I said.
‘Not got the nerve, have you? Are you frightened? Don’t worry, it’s not catching. It’s all there. All the bits that ordinary women have. Next time you’re fucking some girl think of it. I’m as warm and wet in there as any normal woman. Wetter probably. Want to try it? Or my mouth? David said I had the dirtiest mouth he’d ever known. Not like that cold bitch of a wife of his.’
I felt terribly sorry for her all of a sudden. That was the other side of the coin. The empathy I felt for other people sometimes blew those emotions I’d uncovered back on to me. I got out of my chair and knelt beside hers. I separated her hands, one from the other, and I held them in mine. They felt as cold as her legs looked. But there was that charge between us again, when we touched. Our faces were less than two feet apart. All of a sudden she started to cry. Noiselessly. The tears just rolled down her face and dripped off her chin.