by Shaun Hutson
The silence in the room was something Donna had always found unsettling. Only the sound of the water in the radiators broke the oppressive stillness. One day, jokingly, she had said to him that he had an easy job, just sitting behind a desk alone all day. He had locked Donna in there behind the typewriter. After just ten minutes she had called to him to let her out. Laughing, he had agreed.
Laughing.
She had almost forgotten what the sound was like. At times she wondered if she would ever hear such joyous noise again. Certainly not now, seated in The Cell, peering round her at the notes scattered over the desk, at the books and the files.
He had always kept his work private. What went on inside his head was his concern, he’d once told her. And what went on inside his office was his concern, too. He hadn’t excluded her through any act of antagonism; he preferred to keep his work and his life with her separate. She had asked him about his methods of working, about how each of his books was progressing; she’d even been allowed to read portions of them before they were published. But as a rule Ward kept his work to himself. What little else she discovered was by reading interviews with him in newspapers or by hearing him on radio, watching him on television.
And now, as she sat amongst the remnants of his work, she felt a heavy sadness at this exclusion. Now it was too late for him to tell her, she felt she wanted to know every single stage of the processes involved in turning an idea into a finished book. But she knew it could never be.
She began by searching his attaché case, going through the papers. She needed the insurance policies, for instance.
She wondered why she felt as if she were intruding in the small room. It was as if she had no right to be in here, with the night closed tightly around the house like a tenebrous glove. Only the dull glow from the desk light illuminated the blackness.
Donna felt that chill she had come to know only too well over the last few days.
She found what she sought and pulled it clear of the case.
The photos came loose with it.
They fluttered into the air and then fell to the floor. Half a dozen of them.
Donna picked them up.
There was a publicity shot of Chris, unsmiling. His sinister face, he called it. She smiled thinly as she gathered the other photos, turning the next one over.
Chris again.
With other men.
She searched their faces but didn’t recognise any of them. They were sitting at a large table, two younger men, no older than Chris, then her husband, then an older man. Very much older. She squinted at the picture but could not make out his features. It was as if that particular part of the photo were blurred.
It was the same with the next man.
Very old again and, once more, the image was blurred.
Not so with the last of the group, a young man in his early thirties, handsome but with cruel eyes and short dark hair. She could feel those eyes boring into her as she studied the picture.
The next one was the same, except that Chris was in the centre this time.
And again she saw those two blurred images. As she looked from one to the other she realized that it was just the faces that were blurred; the rest of the image was as sharp as a knife.
No one in the photo was smiling. Chris and the other five looked impassively into the camera. She assumed that was what the two older men were doing, too, just looking at the camera. She knew they were old from the wrinkles on their hands; there were deep folds of skin around the knuckles and the base of the thumb. Their clothes looked old, too. Almost archaic, in fact.
What did stand out with sharp clarity was something on their hands.
Both the blurred figures wore rings on their left index fingers, large heavy gold signet rings.
She peered closer at them, aware that there was a symbol of some kind at their centre, but no matter how closely she looked she could not make it out.
Donna sat back on her haunches, breathing heavily.
Then she picked up his diary, flicking through it.
JANUARY 11th: Phone Martin.
JANUARY 15th: Confirm interview for next week.
JANUARY 17th: Shooting - 7.00-9.00.
The entries were mostly uninspiring, some scribbled in pencil, others in pen.
FEBRUARY 5th: Check train times. She read on.
FEBRUARY 9th: Ring S.
Donna gritted her teeth and flicked back and forth through the diary. There were numerous entries of a similar nature. Sometimes just the initial. Others just bore the initial D.
Well, it didn’t refer to Donna, that’s for sure.
Another mistress?
Donna flicked to the back of the diary, to the addresses, and ran her index finger down the list. Through the hotels and restaurants, the business addresses, the private addresses, the ...
SUZANNE REGAN.
Donna read the address, then reached for a pen and scribbled it down on a piece of paper.
SUZANNE REGAN,
23 LOCKWOOD DRIVE,
NOTTING HILL GATE,
LONDON W2 She got to her feet, the piece of paper gripped in her fist.
Sixteen
‘Where the hell are you going?’
Julie looked up in surprise as her sister entered the sitting-room, her long leather coat flying open as she headed across the room.
‘Out,’ snapped Donna, brandishing the piece of paper.
Julie got to her feet. She noticed that Donna had pulled on a pair of suede boots and tucked her jeans into the top of them.
‘You were tired; you were going to have a nap. Donna, tell me what’s happening.’ She could see the tearstains on the older woman’s face.
‘I know where she lives,’ Donna said angrily. ‘I found her address in his diary. I know where she lives.’
‘Lived,’ Julie reminded her. ‘And so what if you do?’
‘I want to see where she lived.’
‘Donna, this is crazy. She’s dead. It’s over. She’s dead. Chris is dead. That’s all there is to it. Stop this now, before it drives you mad. You’re becoming obsessive about it.’
‘And wouldn’t you?’ Donna rasped. ‘You lost your husband to the bottle, but it didn’t matter to you. I care.’
Julie took a step back, her face losing its colour.
‘I wish I could argue with you,’ she said resignedly. ‘Yes, I did lose my husband to the bottle, not another woman. But the difference between us is I didn’t blame myself for his drinking. It’s as if you’re blaming yourself for what Chris did before he was killed. It isn’t your fault, Donna.’
‘Then why did he need to have an affair?’ she rasped. ‘What the fuck was so special about this bloody Suzanne Regan? I want to know what she had that I don’t. I want to know what she wore, what she smelled like. I want to know what kind of music she listened to. I even want to know what she bloody well ate.’ There was a vehemence in Donna’s words Julie had never seen before, a hatred that burned as brightly as a beacon. It danced in her eyes like fire.
‘It’s becoming an obsession with you,’ Julie continued. ‘I’m beginning to wonder which has upset you the most, the fact that Chris is dead or that he was unfaithful.’
‘Well, perhaps even I don’t know any more,’ Donna told her. ‘He’s not here for me to ask, is he? I can’t find out from him why he wanted her. So I have to find out myself. It might just keep me sane.’
‘Why do you have to know?’ Julie asked imploringly. ‘Why do you have to torture yourself?’
‘I told you, I need to know whether she was better than me.’ There were tears forming in Donna’s eyes now. ‘I lost my husband, Julie, that’s the worse thing I could ever have imagined. I don’t want to lose my self-respect, too.’
For long seconds the two women stood staring at each other, neither speaking. Then Julie took a step forward.
‘What are you going to do?’ she asked quietly.
‘Go to her house.’
‘And do what?�
�
‘Look around, see what I can find.’
‘You’re just going to break in? As easy as that?’
‘I don’t know what I’m going to do. All I know is, I have to see where she lived.’ She handed the piece of paper with the address on to Julie. ‘You’re my sister and I love you. If you love me, then help me.’
‘Help you do what? Go crazy? Because that’s what you’re doing. Please think about this, Donna. Think about what you’re doing to yourself. Isn’t Chris’s death enough to cope with?’
Donna’s stare was unflinching.
‘Are you going to help me?’ she asked, holding out her hand for the piece of paper.
Julie exhaled deeply and wearily.
‘Yes, I’ll help you,’ she said finally.
‘I want to go there now.’
Julie knew that it was futile to argue. She nodded.
‘Let me get my coat,’ she said. ‘I’ll drive.’
Seventeen
Number Twenty-Three Lockwood Drive was a converted house off Moscow Road, part of the maze of Notting Hill.
It was white, or had been at one time. Now the painted brickwork was grey with the accumulated grime of the years. Even the flowers in the window box on the ground floor looked as though they’d been sprayed with dust. It was difficult to tell which were alive and which weren’t. A row of iron railings, rusted in places, protected the front of the house and a gate with one hinge missing guarded the short path to the front door. The neighbouring houses were in a similar state; many had FOR SALE signs displayed.
Lights burned in windows and shadowy figures could be seen moving behind curtains. There were few people on the streets and those that were hardly glanced at the two women sitting in the Fiesta parked opposite Number Twenty-Three.
Donna Ward gazed at the house, studying every aspect of it: the colour of the front door, the curtains that hung at the windows. She saw a dark stain at the meeting of the roof and front wall and realized that water had obviously been dripping from a hole in the guttering. Somewhere close by she heard a dog bark.
Street lamps burned with a dull yellow light, casting deep shadows. Inside the car it was silent.
The drive into the heart of London had taken less than an hour. Traffic had been unexpectedly light and Julie had guided them skilfully to their destination. Now she sat in the driver’s seat, one hand pressed to her forehead, her impatience growing.
‘How long are we going to sit here?’ she wanted to know.
Donna ignored the question, her eyes still fixed on the dirty white house across the road.
‘It’s expensive around here,’ she said. ‘A bit grand for a secretary’s wages. Perhaps he was paying her rent, too.’
‘Let’s go. You’ve seen the place, that’s what you wanted.’
Donna reached for the door-handle and pushed it open.
‘What are you doing?’ Julie asked, bewildered.
‘Wait for me,’ Donna instructed her, swinging herself out of the car. She walked briskly across the street and headed for the house, lifting the gate on its hinge as she made her way up the short path and four steps.
Julie, watching from the car, shook her head.
Donna studied the panel beside the front door and saw a number of names attached to the intercom buttons. She ran her index finger down the list:
Weston.
Lawrence.
Regan.
She gritted her teeth when she saw the name, then pressed the main door buzzer and waited.
She heard movement behind the door. A moment later, it was opened and she found herself looking into the face of a man in his sixties, short, balding and with tufts of white hair sprouting from each nostril. It looked as if two snow-white caterpillars were trying to escape from his nose. He was wearing impeccably-pressed trousers, a blue shirt that looked freshly ironed and a spotted bow-tie. On his feet he wore scuffed carpet slippers.
He smiled warmly when he saw Donna.
‘Can I help you?’ he asked.
‘It’s about my sister,’ she lied, her tone sombre. ‘Suzanne Regan.’
The old man nodded, his smile fading.
‘I was very sorry to hear what happened. She was a lovely girl,’ he offered. ‘There’s a family resemblance.’
Donna controlled herself with difficulty.
‘My brother said he was going to call round for some of her things,’ she said, sounding remarkably convincing. ‘But I thought I’d better check whether he had or not.’
‘No one’s been round, Miss Regan,’ he said, glancing down at her left hand, catching sight of the wedding ring. ‘Or is it Mrs?’ He smiled again.
She shook her head.
‘My name is
(careful now)
Blake. Catherine Blake.’
‘Mercuriadis,’ he announced, holding out a hand. She shook it lightly; his hand felt soft and warm. ‘I know it’s a bit of a mouthful. Would you like to come in?’
Bingo.
Donna accepted the invitation and closed the door behind her, looking briefly around the hall. There was a small antique chest to her left with flowers propped in a vase on its scratched top. A pay-phone on the wall. To the right was the half-open door to the landlord’s own flat, presumably. At least she assumed he was the landlord. Ahead of her was a flight of stairs.
‘I’d just like to check my sister’s flat if that’s all right?’ Donna said, trying to hold the old man’s gaze.
‘I’ll get the key,’ he said, and disappeared into the room on the right. Donna could hear the sound of television coming from inside.
Jesus, this was too easy.
See how easy it is to lie.
He returned a moment later clutching the key and ushered her towards the stairs.
‘Did you see much of my sister?’ she wanted to know as they climbed the stairs slowly, the old man wheezing every few steps.
‘No, she kept herself to herself. Very quiet. A lovely girl.’
‘Did she have many visitors? I was always joking with her about getting a boyfriend.’ Donna laughed as convincingly as she could.
‘There was a young man,’ Mercuriadis said. ‘I saw him with her two or three times.’ He lowered his voice into a conspiratorial whisper. ‘I think he spent the night more than once.’ He smiled.
Donna tried to smile but it came out as a grimace.
‘What did he look like?’ she asked.
‘I can’t really remember. Age plays tricks with memory, you know. My wife always used to say that, God rest her soul.’
Had Chris been here? Had he slept here with her?
They reached the first landing and Donna hesitated.
‘It’s up another flight, I’m afraid,’ he told her. ‘It’s a good job my tenants are younger than I am. It never used to bother me, all this climbing. My wife and I bought this house forty years ago. After she died I decided to let the rooms. I don’t like being in a house this size on my own. There aren’t so many tenants now, though. I’ve had to put the rents up and some moved out. The recession, you know.’ He nodded as if to reinforce his statement.
‘Look, I can check out the room myself,’ Donna told him. ‘There’s no need for you to struggle up the stairs. I’ll return the key to you on my way out.’
‘All right, then. That’s very thoughtful of you,’ he said, looking at her.
Was it her imagination or did she see a look of suspicion in his eyes?
Come on, don’t get paranoid.
‘I’m surprised I don’t remember seeing you before,’ he said, still holding onto the key. ‘I don’t usually forget a pretty face.’
Donna smiled with impressive sincerity.
‘Thank you. I live on the South Coast. I didn’t get to see Suzanne as often as I’d like.’
Lying was easier than she’d thought.
He nodded again and handed her the key.
‘I’ll leave you to it, then,’ he said. ‘But I would just like to offer my condolence
s once again. I know what you must be going through.’
Do you? Do you really?
She smiled thinly, took the key from him and set off up the second flight of stairs, emerging on the next landing. She looked down to see the landlord making his way back down the stairs. She waited until she heard the door to his room close before turning around.
Only then, faced by four locked doors and with the key in her hand, did she realize that she hadn’t got a clue which of the doors would lead her into Suzanne Regan’s flat.
Eighteen
What the hell was she going to do?
Donna looked at the key, then at each of the doors in turn. They all looked the same.
Only one way to find out.
She crossed to the first door and edged the key into the lock, listening for any sounds from the other side. She didn’t relish the prospect of having to explain herself to both an irate tenant and Mr Mercuriadis. She heard nothing and pushed the key as far as it would go into the Yale lock, turning it as gently as possible.
It wouldn’t turn.
She withdrew it with equal care, looking behind her at the other doors just in case someone emerged and caught her at her furtive business.
She moved to the next door and pressed her ear close to the white-painted wood.
From inside she heard classical music. Someone was obviously in there.
Donna turned and moved towards the third of the four doors. Once more she pushed the key slowly into the lock and tried to turn it.
Again it wouldn’t move.
She allowed herself a thin smile as she realized, by process of elimination, that the door she wanted was the last one. Donna pulled the key.
It wouldn’t budge; remained stuck fast in the lock.
She swallowed hard and gripped it more firmly but still the recalcitrant object stayed where it was, held by the grooves and threads of the lock.
She had to free it.
There was movement on the other side of the door.
Oh Jesus, what if the tenant was coming out?
Donna pulled at the key again frantically but still it remained firmly wedged.