‘Farewell, Toad,’ said Brother Samuel loudly, mainly for the benefit of the man he knew was listening just a short distance away. ‘We’re all sorry it had to end like this.’ And with that he released his grip, stepping back from the roof after a moment with his arms still stretched apart.
In surprised silence the Toad and the attached raven fell four floors down, to be stopped by the tall enamelled railings of the Prudential Insurance offices below. High above, Brother Samuel’s head appeared hesitantly over the building’s edge and, briefly noting the shuddering red bundle which had been pierced through with crested spears like some grotesque biological specimen, vanished from view once again.
On a nearby rooftop, a billowing figure watched the end of the drama. He dipped his head in silent approval as the body ceased to twitch and the bird, tied even in death, flapped brokenly against its chest. Then in a low voice he began to intone:
‘ “I am Mercury, the mighty flower,
I am most worthy of honour,
I am the Mother of Mirror and maker of light,
I am the hot lion who devours the sun in the heavens, Who witnesses the unfolding of the creation of the world!” ’
Satisfied with the events of the night, Chymes smiled to himself and strode off into the deepening gloom.
Tuesday 16 December
Chapter 7
Confluence
Charlotte Endsleigh’s flat proved to be a further half-mile on from Hampstead tube station. At seven o’clock that morning the rain had recommenced and three hours later still rippled in slate sheets over the glistening green heathland above the village. By the time he managed to locate the apartment building, a Victorian mansion block built in the lower, less wealthy corner of the suburb, he looked like something that had just been fished out of the Thames. Standing in the shelter of the gloomy, steepled porch trying to decipher the names on the bells, he was surprised by the sound of the front door opening. A young West Indian woman in a bright sunsplash of a housecoat stood in the hallway. Princess Ida pattered out from a stereo in the background.
‘Can I help you?’ she asked, guardedly studying his sodden clothes. ‘Can anything help you?’ The flattened consonants of her speech betrayed South London origins.
‘Can I come in?’ asked Robert. His sneakers squished as he wiped them on the mat. ‘I’m soaked,’ he added unnecessarily.
‘I can see that. No, you can’t.’
‘I was looking for Charlotte Endsleigh’s apartment. You see…’
‘You a reporter? One of Rupert Murdoch’s lot?’
‘No, not at all, I…’
‘ ’Cause I’ve had ’em all round here. “Got any nude pictures of the deceased’s daughter”, that sort of thing. I told them to bugger off, the lot of them. “Dusky brunette refused our reporter admittance. Does she hold death clue? Shouldn’t we be told?” That’s what I half expected them to print the next day. As it was the story never even made the papers. So much for my sole chance of notoriety.’
Robert wondered if he would have the chance to get a word in edgeways.
‘ ’Course, it’s going to be fun trying to let the place. Should I point out to prospective renters that the last tenant died in unnatural circumstances? Would you?’ She looked at him mischievously.
‘I don’t know, I need to speak to the person sorting out Mrs Endsleigh’s effects, if that’s all right,’ said Robert in a rush.
‘Ah. Well, that’s me.’ She thoughtfully tapped a red false nail against brilliant white teeth, checking him over with a degree of unsubtlety that Robert would have found endearing had he been less uptight about meeting women.
‘I’m trying to buy the rights to a book she wrote and I need to know if she left any instructions concerning the disposal of her work. You can call her agent if you want to check me out. I have his number here somewhere.’ He began to search his raincoat pockets.
‘Don’t worry, you look ridiculously trustworthy. I suppose you’d better step inside.’ She smiled generously and opened the door wide. ‘After what happened here I usually make strangers take a two-hour exam before I let them in. But you remind me of that TV character, the one with the honest, hangdog kind of look. You know, the detective.’ She clicked her fingers at him. Robert screwed up his face, puzzled.
‘The one who wears the Armani suits?’
‘Right, sure.’ She looked innocently at Robert, as if dealing him a marked poker card. She had sexy and very possibly dangerous eyes, set in a round and pleasing face. Her tightly curled hair was cut into a man’s flat-top, yet somehow added to her femininity. She slipped past him, leading the way to the back of the hall and a narrow, twisting staircase. As she passed close by, Robert could smell her perfume, an incongruously light and summery scent that seemed to defy the dismal weather outside.
‘I can show you where all the paperwork is kept. Some wizened relative of Charlotte’s appeared a few days ago and cleared the place of anything that could possibly be of any value.’
‘Funny how relatives suddenly turn up when somebody dies,’ said Robert, more to make conversation than for any other reason. They climbed the dimly lit stairs to the top of the house and stopped in front of a scuffed brown door. The young woman produced a set of keys from her voluminous housecoat.
‘Rose Leonard,’ she said, holding out her hand. ‘I look after these luxuriously appointed shoeboxes. My place is on the ground floor. If you ever feel like renting an apartment here, see an analyst.’
‘Robert Linden. How do you do,’ said Robert.
‘I say, how formal. Come on in.’
What an unhappy-looking guy, she thought, he keeps looking at me as if he’s just been told off for doing something wrong. She pushed open the door and they entered Charlotte Endsleigh’s apartment. The rooms smelled strongly of damp and were devoid of all but the most basic pieces of furniture. Pale squares marked the oatmeal-coloured walls where paintings had hung.
‘You probably want to know what happened to Charlotte,’ Rose continued, not caring whether he wanted to know or not, but relishing the chance to discuss the subject anew. ‘Well, it was horrible. Blood everywhere, screams in the night. I’m lying, I’m lying.’ She laid a warm hand on his arm so suddenly that Robert withdrew in surprise. ‘In actual fact, nobody heard a thing. I wasn’t even here when it happened. They never caught the guy who did it, either. I mean, he could come back, couldn’t he? I managed to get our scumbag landlord to shell out for a decent alarm system, though. I mean, we could all have been murdered in our beds.’
Rose ushered him into what had obviously been Charlotte’s study. On the far side of the room, beneath a sharply angled ceiling, a desk covered with boxes of paper stood below a small window. Rain pattered on a skylight somewhere. There was no typewriter, Robert noted.
‘You wouldn’t believe it. The woman who came by took everything: pictures, silverware, even the crockery. Thieving old bag. I hope no one does that when I die.’
‘Typewriter?’ Robert walked over to the desk and peered out of the window. The rain seemed to be easing a little.
‘Yes, even that. I couldn’t stop her. She was family, after all. Still, it seemed a bit much when you consider that in all the time Charlotte was here she only ever came around for a couple of quick visits. Those are all the remaining papers, over there.’ She indicated the cardboard boxes on top of the desk.
‘Did this lady take any of the paperwork, or any books?’
‘No, I think she just stuck to things she could fence.’ Rose stood by the door and watched fascinatedly as Robert pulled a stool out from under the desk and dusted it down. There’s something uncertain about the way he moves, she thought. It’s as if he expects something awful to happen at any second.
‘You haven’t seen anything resembling a will, by any chance? No written instructions to relatives?’
‘From what I can gather, she never got around to having one drawn up,’ said Rose. The subject of Charlotte Endsleigh’s
legal arrangements obviously bored her. ‘You know, we’ve had a policeman on duty outside ever since it happened. He must be all of seventeen. Looks like a broomstick in a uniform.’
Robert began to turn out the contents of the nearest cardboard box. ‘I feel a bit guilty, going through someone else’s belongings,’ he admitted.
‘I wouldn’t if I were you. It’s not stuff that anyone’s liable to come back and claim. Final demands, a load of weird old books and tons of magazines.’
‘What kind of weird books?’ Robert looked back at Rose. She was standing with one hand on her hip and the other on the door handle, watching and smiling.
‘I dunno, the kind nobody reads any more. Obscure historical reference works, stuff like that.’
‘Mind if I take a look through them?’
‘They’re not mine to mind.’
‘I won’t be very long.’
‘I don’t suppose you will. It’s not exactly the Hermitage, is it?’
She’s altogether too knowing, he thought, unnerved by her brazen stare. He turned back to the desk and started sifting through wads of unpaid bills, unfinished correspondence and illegibly scribbled notes. When he looked up again, Rose had gone. The cardboard cartons contained little of any help or interest. In the main, the old lady’s letters were hastily jotted thoughts and observations, written for the benefit of friends but apparently never posted. He could find no mention at all of family affairs. Junk mail, circulars and ancient magazines comprised the remainder of the papers. After a while Robert neatly restacked the boxes and walked round the echoing apartment. The cool, damp air brought on a sudden sneeze and, pulling a handkerchief from his pocket, he sent most of his small change bouncing over the floor. It was while he was on his knees picking it up that he discovered the envelope.
At a quarter to eleven he came downstairs, knocked on the door of Rose’s apartment and was invited to join her for coffee. The lounge he was ushered into was tiny, but cheerfully painted in eye-searing shades of red, yellow and blue. Beyond the windows the storm clouds were leaving the sky, but tall rustling hedges held back the ashen light.
‘I’d like to take this with me and read it at home.’ Robert sat down on the couch and placed his hand on the thin brown envelope beside him.
‘It’s not really up to me,’ said Rose. ‘But I’m sure it would be OK. What is it?’
‘Nothing to do with the rights of Charlotte’s book, but something which looks very much like the first draft of another novel,’ said Robert. ‘I found it under a table in the study.’
‘I hope you find it useful. I’ll have to put the boxes in storage.’ Rose had changed into an enormous shapeless T-shirt and jeans. Her clothes looked as if they’d been dropped onto her from a great height, but displayed a certain bizarre style. She wore no shoes. Tiny painted toenails showed. She looked younger than she’d seemed earlier. Twenty-four or -five, he guessed. Probably had lots of loud friends, black and white. Probably spent her time going out and enjoying herself on the nights that he stayed in.
‘I doubt very much if Sarah will be coming back to collect anything.’ Rose dropped a disturbing number of sugar cubes into her coffee and began to stir.
‘Sarah? You mean Charlotte’s daughter?’
‘That’s right.’
‘Did you ever meet her?’ Robert picked up the envelope and thumbed casually through the handwritten pages of the torn school notebook within.
‘Just a couple of times. That was enough.’
‘Why, what was she like?’
‘Black lipstick, purple hair, chalky face. King’s Road type, looked like she needed a bowl of chicken soup and a few nights in. Both times she visited, she had a shouting match with Charlotte. Fierce stuff, I could hear her from down here. She had a voice that could strip paint.’
‘When was the last time she came here?’
‘The day her mother was done in.’
‘Wait a minute.’ Robert turned his attention from the notebook. ‘I was told that Sarah had vanished. Nobody mentioned her coming back to town.’
‘That’s ’cause I didn’t tell anyone,’ said Rose in a conspiratorial whisper.
‘Why not?’
‘Because she turned up with a couple of creepy-looking dudes who hung around outside waiting for her. Looked like they were on drugs. I caught one of them carving things on the front door.’
‘Why didn’t you mention it to the police?’
‘I figured either she or the Brothers Grimm might come back and give me a hard time.’ Rose looked down, picking a strand from her T-shirt. ‘I have to manage this block alone. It’s me who gets in trouble if we have vandals.’
‘You seem a little young to be looking after the place by yourself.’
Rose looked away toward the window with studied disinterest. ‘Yeah, well, there used to be two of us, but he decided to move out. I manage just fine.’ There was a coolness in her voice. Robert hastily moved from the subject.
‘I don’t suppose you’d know where I might find Sarah now?’
‘Not really. She struck me as the kind of person who could turn up anywhere at any time, depending on who she was with.’
‘OK, but supposing Charlotte was killed by one of her daughter’s friends?’ he said.
Rose wrinkled her nose at the suggestion. ‘Seems a bit unlikely, getting your mates to knock your own mother off. I mean, what for? The old girl was broke. She could barely cover the rent.’ Rose drew her knees up onto the sofa and hugged them. Her movements were slow and deliberate, almost feline. ‘I used to get embarrassed having to ask for the money. She hardly ever went out, probably couldn’t afford to. Besides, we all knew about the burglar.’
‘How?’
‘The guy broke in about six weeks earlier. He stole stuff from several of the apartments. Entered the same way both times, through Charlotte’s skylight. And some other flats along the street were done over. But it wasn’t until he got here that he did more than steal. Poor old soul. She’d probably still be here if she hadn’t tried to put up a fight.’
‘I’ve never been this close to a real murder before,’ said Robert. He replaced his coffee mug and sat back. ‘It’s days like today that make my job so enthralling. I’ve got an untraceable book and a dead author and the only person who can help me has gone missing.’
‘I always knew I was in the wrong job. What you need is a gorgeous pouting blonde to provide you with a lead.’ Rose leaned forward with a crooked smile. ‘I’ll let you know if I hear of any.’
‘Well, I was going to ask you if you had any bright ideas.’
‘I don’t know how you can get your book rights, if that’s what you mean.’ Rose stood up and smoothed out the front of her vast T-shirt. ‘Maybe you should just go ahead with your plans and wait for Sarah to contact you when she hears about it.’
‘It’s too risky,’ sighed Robert. ‘We’d wind up with a lawsuit on our hands. I might as well forget the whole thing.’
‘Now, that’s positive thinking.’
‘It’s not as if my boss would let me spend any money taking it further.’
‘Doesn’t personal satisfaction count for something?’ asked Rose. ‘Boy, you give up easily. Come on, I have to go down to the shops. You can buy me a coffee. I forgot, you’re a poor person, I’ll buy you a coffee.’ She pulled Robert out of his seat and together they left the apartment. In Hampstead High Street Rose deposited her rolls of film in a Fotomat store and promised to collect them in an hour.
She discovered very little about Robert in the sixty minutes that followed. He seemed reluctant to discuss himself or his job on even the most superficial level, but at the same time he was obviously anxious to share her company. To keep the conversation flowing, Rose told him of her previous night’s exploits on the Regent Street rooftops. The permanent furrow in Robert’s brow deepened as he listened to what he obviously considered to be a total fantasy. Rose watched him fastidiously emptying Sweet’n Low into his coffee and decid
ed to give up. The guy was obviously a lost cause, a waste of space. When they finally agreed to leave the warmth of the coffee shop, he announced that he was going back to work and would consider contacting the police regarding the whereabouts of Sarah Endsleigh.
‘Well, I’ll call you if I hear anything,’ she said half-heartedly, accepting his business card and slipping it into her purse. ‘And you’re welcome to get in touch if you need any help.’
They parted outside the station, convinced that they would never see each other again.
—
‘How much?’
‘Thirty-five pounds twenty pence.’ The young woman behind the Fotomat counter listlessly checked the receipt. ‘There’s a lot of film here. And you got them processed in an hour.’
‘You shouldn’t charge for my natural impatience. God, I’m surrounded by assassins. Look, I’ll pay for one of the rolls now and collect the rest later.’
‘You can’t just pay for one roll.’
‘Why on earth not?’
‘Because they’re all mixed up together.’
‘Whose fault is that? Wait here.’ Rose ran out of the shop and back up the street until she spotted the retreating figure of Robert, just about to enter the station. Her ensuing whistle, while lacking the timbre to set off all the car alarms in the neighbourhood, was shrill enough to bring every pedestrian in the area to a standstill. In the distance, Robert turned around. What he saw appeared to be a mad woman leaping up and down in a white T-shirt that was so huge that from this distance she looked like a cereal packet.
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