Dark Eyes of London

by Philip Cox

  He let himself in the building front door, and started to climb the stairs to his floor. Just as he reached the halfway point, where the stairs did the 180 degree point, he froze. He could hear a woman in conversation, but it was Lisa! But it couldn’t be, could it? He shook his head: his ears must be deceiving him, but the voice sounded just like hers did the day before yesterday.

  He turned the 180 degrees and as he climbed the last part of the stairs he could see a figure in a black coat walking around his landing. It was a female and she was on the phone. But he couldn’t mistake the voice: it was Lisa.

  The woman noticed him arrive and turned round. ‘Call you back later,’ she said into the phone. Then gave Tom a faint smile. ‘Hello, Tom,’ she said. ‘Long time, no see.’

  Tom stopped at the top of the stairs.

  ‘Hello, Jane,’ he said.

  Chapter Eight

  Tom froze at the sight of his former sister-in-law.

  Jane inclined her head to Tom’s door. ‘Are you going to let me in?’ she asked. ‘Or do you want to talk out here?’

  ‘Sorry,’ he laughed, and stepped over to his door. He was carrying a plastic supermarket bag in each hand. He clumsily passed one bag over to his left hand while he fumbled in his pocket for his door keys. The bags were too full and heavy for one hand, and he was in danger of dropping both bags. The more he fumbled, the more flustered he became.

  ‘Here, let me,’ said Jane, taking the key from him, and unlocking the door.

  ‘Thanks,’ he said, indicating for Jane to go in first.

  Tom followed Jane in and went straight to the kitchen and put his shopping down on the counter top. He took off his wet coat and hung it up. Jane wandered around the hallway, looking around at the inside of the flat.

  ‘Very nice,’ she said, not convincingly. ‘Very - cosy.’

  ‘Cosy isn’t the word I’d use,’ replied Tom, as he led Jane into the living room. ‘Small and compact, I’d call it.’

  ‘But it’s home,’ she said.

  ‘Yes, it’s home,’ said Tom. ‘A bit smaller than...’

  Jane nodded thoughtfully. ‘Yes. The last time I saw you it was at your house. Yours and Lisa’s house, I mean. Sorry, I didn’t mean...’

  ‘It’s okay,’ Tom said softly.

  ‘Come here,’ Jane said, holding her arms out. Tom walked over and they hugged. Hugged tightly and for a long time.

  ‘Oh Tom, I’m going to miss her,’ Jane cried. ‘So much.’

  ‘Me too,’ Tom replied. He let her go and led her over to the sofa.

  ‘Come and sit down. Give me your coat. Do you want something to drink? Coffee? Tea? Something stronger?’

  ‘Tea would be fine,’ Jane said quietly.

  ‘Coming up,’ Tom said, and went into the kitchen. While he was waiting for the kettle to boil he heard Jane blow her nose a couple of times. Then he heard the text message received bleep of a mobile phone. As he brought out two cups of tea Jane appeared to be texting a reply. She looked up at him, sent the message, and put the phone back in her bag. Her eyes were red.

  ‘Thanks,’ she mouthed as she took the tea.

  Tom sat down on a chair the other side of his coffee table. ‘I was planning on calling you,’ he said, ‘but I couldn’t find a number. At least I had one. On an old business card you had given me. I tried it, but it must have been an old number.’

  She shook her head. ‘No, that’s a wrong number. Obviously. I changed jobs a while back.’

  ‘I guessed so,’ he said, staring into his tea.

  ‘I didn’t have a number for you, either,’ Jane said. ‘The police still have Lisa’s mobile. I thought I ought to get in touch with you. I asked the police if they could access her address book to get some numbers, but they said they couldn’t. Data Protection Act or something.’

  ‘Bullshit.’

  ‘Well, that’s what they said. I had a spare key to her place fortunately. Couldn’t find any number for you anywhere, but she had a letter from your bank about the mortgage when you sold the house, and that had this address on it as well as hers.’

  ‘Oh, I see. I wondered...’

  ‘So I came round here. Praying that you hadn’t moved.’

  ‘No. Still here. Probably here forever.’

  Jane smiled.

  Neither of them said a word for a few moments until Tom said, ‘How is your mother? How has she taken the news?’

  ‘She doesn’t know.’

  ‘Doesn’t know?’

  ‘A lot’s happened since you and Lisa split. Our father died late last year.’

  ‘Yes, I knew that. I’m sorry.’

  Jane sniffed and continued, ‘Our mother was diagnosed with Alzheimer’s at the beginning of last year.’

  ‘Oh no, Jane...’

  ‘Yeah, the hits keep on coming, don’t they? She had to go into a home in the summer and I think it was the strain of all that that finished Dad off. He had had a heart attack before.’

  ‘Is she still in a home?’

  ‘Yes, always will be. Until...’

  ‘I assume she doesn’t know what’s going on at all?’

  ‘She doesn’t recognise me now. Lisa and I went to visit her a couple of weeks back, but nothing registered. So now there’s just me left.’

  ‘Jane, I don’t know what to say.’

  She blew her nose again. ‘Not much to say really, Tom. At least I’ve got Sully. He’s been really supportive.’

  ‘Sully? Don’t remember him.’

  ‘No, don’t suppose you do. We got together about the same time you and Lisa split.’

  Tom thought a moment. ‘Dark hair, fairly tall?’

  ‘That’s the one. Wondered if you’d met him.’

  ‘Vaguely remember him. So - you two are an item.’

  Jane nodded. ‘Yeah. Been together a while now. Moved into our place together last year. Just before Dad died in fact.’

  ‘Up in Newcastle?’

  ‘Good God, no. Just outside Croydon.’

  ‘Croydon?’

  ‘Sounds exotic, doesn’t it? Sully - Sullivan Beecham, by the way - works for a bank. A manager.’

  ‘And what do you do?’ Tom drank the rest of his now cold tea.

  ‘I work in a shop near where we are. Not much, but I enjoy it.’

  ‘And where you live, house, flat, what?

  ‘Small house. New build, they call it. Nothing fantastic. Two up, two down.’

  Tom nodded. ‘Cool.’

  ‘We’ll need a second bedroom next spring, you see.’

  ‘You’ll need..? You mean you’re..?’

  She nodded, smiling. ‘Yes, in May.’

  ‘Well, that’s fantastic,’ Tom said as he leaned over to kiss her cheek. ‘Congratulations!”

  ‘Thanks,’ Jane replied. ‘It’s a pity there’s no-one left to...’

  A few moments where nobody spoke.

  ‘What happened, Jane?’ Tom asked. ‘The police said she must have tripped, or fell. Or she jumped. Or somebody pushed her.’

  ‘There’s no way on this earth she would have jumped. She wasn’t the type. You hadn’t seen her for a while, Tom, but I saw her regularly. She would be the last person to kill herself.’

  ‘Was she seeing..?’

  ‘Was she seeing anyone? Not really. Since you two broke up I think she went on a couple of dates, but nothing came of them. No, she said she was perfectly happy discovering herself and enjoying her independence.’

  ‘But when we were together she -’

  Jane held her hand up. ‘I’m not judging anyone, Tom. That’s just what she said. She had got herself a new job. Something in market research in Docklands. No, she would never have jumped. Never. As for the idea that she was pushed: well, who’d want to do that to her? The only person she fell out with was you, and I can’t see you pushing her in front of a train.’

  ‘No,’ said Tom, slightly unnerved. He hadn’t thought through the implications of Lisa being murdered: would he be though
t of as a suspect?

  ‘No,’ Jane said, wiping her nose again. ‘It was just an accident. A tragic accident.’

  ‘What about the funeral?’ asked Tom.

  ‘There’ll have to be an inquest,’ said Jane. ‘Then her body gets released for the funeral. From what that policewoman -’

  ‘Sergeant Green?’

  ‘That’s her. From what she said, we’re looking at around two weeks’ time.’

  ‘I’d like to go.’

  ‘I’d like you to be there.’

  ‘And the arrangements? Do you need me to do anything?’

  ‘No, it’s all right, thanks. Sully and I are taking care of things.’

  ‘I assume your mother won’t be there.’

  ‘No point. She doesn’t know what’s going on. No point dragging her down from Newcastle.’

  ‘No.’ As Tom spoke he tried to suppress a yawn.

  ‘I’m keeping you up,’ Jane said, as she picked up her bag.

  ‘No, it’s all right - sorry...’

  ‘It’s getting late, and I’ve got a longish journey home.’

  ‘How did you get here?’

  ‘Drove. My car’s the mini out there.’

  ‘With the Union Jack?’

  She nodded.

  ‘I noticed that.’

  ‘I’ll just text Sully and let him know I’m leaving. Can I use your bathroom first?’

  ‘Sure, just through there.’

  Moments later, she came out of the bathroom, texting.

  ‘Thanks for coming,’ Tom said, passing Jane her coat.

  ‘I’d better take your number,’ she said.

  ‘Of course.’ He gave her the number. She saved it, and then pressed a few more keys.

  ‘I’ve just sent you mine,’ she said, as a bleep came from his coat pocket.

  ‘Nice place, really,’ she said looking round as she left the flat. ‘Not what I was expecting, to be honest.’

  ‘How do you mean?’ he asked, holding the door open for her.

  She laughed. ‘I expected it to be really slobby. But you keep it really clean and tidy. Nice.’

  Tom said nothing, but shrugged. He walked down the stairs with her, and out to the mini, which was parked three buildings down.

  ‘Still there,’ he said.

  ‘Nice to see you again, Tom,’ she said, reaching up and kissing him on the cheek.

  ‘And you,’ he replied. ‘Pity it’s not...’

  ‘I know,’ Jane said, climbing into her car. She started the engine, and pulled into the traffic. Tom waited by the roadside until he saw her tail lights turn the first corner. Then he ambled back to his building.

  He slapped himself on the forehead: he had forgotten to ask if Jane knew why Lisa was on the Piccadilly Line. He considered giving her an hour or two to get home then calling or texting. Then thought again. Maybe it would keep until he saw her again.

  Maybe.

  As he walked up to the first floor he could hear the couple above having an argument. Lots of shouting, some doors banging, something smashing. Tom shook his head as he let himself back in. Locked and bolted the door. Took his and Jane’s tea mugs into the kitchen and left them in the sink. He was in bed in ten minutes.

  Lying in bed, he ran both hands through his hair, then lay resting his head on his hands. What next? He thought. The inquest and the funeral?

  As Tom Raymond drifted off to sleep, a solitary tear trickled down his face.

  Chapter Nine

  The early morning sun reflected off the sides of the highly polished black BMW as it swept up the entrance drive of the fifteen storey office block in London’s Docklands. The driver was wearing a black suit and a white shirt with a black tie. He pulled up outside the wide chrome and glass entrance doors. Secured the handbrake, reached over to the front passenger seat, and picked up the black peaked cap. As he stepped out of the car, he put on the cap, and quickly checked his appearance in the wing mirror. Stepped two paces to the rear door, and opened it.

  A man stepped out of the car. Underneath his beige overcoat, he wore a dark grey pin-striped three-piece suit. Underneath the suit he wore a blue striped shirt, white collar, and a pink and dark blue striped tie. Matching handkerchief in his jacket pocket. He carried a brown attaché case.

  He was of average height, shorter than the driver, and wore a pair of gold-rimmed glasses. The suit was maybe one size too small, as it was clearly a tight fit. The driver was not sure exactly how old his passenger was: late fifties, he guessed.

  ‘Thank you, John,’ he barked at the driver. ‘I will be needing you at twelve-thirty.’

  John saluted. ‘Yessir,’ he said, closing the passenger door. He returned to his own seat, released the handbrake, and drove the car slowly round to the underground parking garage.

  The man walked up to the entrance doors, which slid open automatically. Two women were speaking to the man on reception; as soon as he saw the figure walk through the sliding doors, he broke off from his conversation with the women, and stood up.

  ‘Good morning, sir,’ he called out, only to be ignored as the other man walked quickly round to the bank of lifts. He pressed the call button, and the door slid open immediately. He stepped in, and the doors slid shut. The indicator display above the lift doors flashed as it made its way up the shaft, stopping at fifteen.

  On the fifteenth floor, he strode out, again ignoring two suited men chatting near the lift and made his way past a bank of desks to a corridor. He walked down the corridor, past the row of office doors.

  As he made his way down the corridor, a young woman smartly dressed in a navy blue suit greeted him.

  ‘Good morning, Mr Fleming,’ she said. Fleming replied with a grunt.

  At the end of the corridor a middle-aged woman was working on a computer keyboard. When she saw Fleming she stood up.

  ‘Good morning, sir,’ she said.

  ‘Good morning, Carol,’ Fleming replied. ‘Come in in three minutes.’

  He opened the dark oak door behind Carol’s desk, and went, in closing the door behind. There was engraved in gold lettering: Sebastian Fleming, Chief Executive Officer.

  Three minutes later, Carol knocked softly on the door.

  ‘Come,’ Fleming’s nasal voice called out.

  She stepped in, carrying a china cup and saucer. She was carrying a small notepad under her left arm. She walked over to the heavy wooden desk and put the cup and saucer on the desk, next to a pile of thick folders.

  Fleming was not sitting at the desk; he was standing with his back to Carol, looking out of the huge windows which dominated his office. His overcoat was on a coat stand in the corner of the office, and his suit jacket was draped over the padded leather chair behind the desk. With his jacket off, Carol could see his waistcoat had a bright blue back.

  He turned round when he heard Carol put the cup and saucer on the desk. He glanced at Carol, and then his eyes went to the cup and saucer.

  He gave Carol a smile; not a smile in the conventional sense, but a kind of twisted grimace. Some of the muscles in his face seemed to be partially paralysed, which left him unable to show the same facial expressions as other men.

  ‘Thank you very much,’ he said, returning to the desk. He turned his head round back to the window for a moment. ‘Lovely view today isn’t it?’ he said as he sat down in the leather chair.

  ‘Yes, sir,’ Carol replied. ‘Very nice today.’

  Fleming looked back at the window. ‘You know,’ he said, looking back at Carol. ‘The view of the city I get from here is second to none. Forget Venice, Rio de Janeiro. Forget Paris, forget - I can’t remember what the damned place is called - down in South America, Machu Pinchu or something?’

  ‘Not sure, sir.’

  ‘Well, anyway; not a patch on the vista out there. In every season. In winter, when the sky’s clear, the harsh sunlight on the office blocks. In spring, one can tell the air is warming up. In summer, the sight of the sunset on the buildings. In the autumn -
my favourite season - the colours of the leaves in the parks down there.’

  ‘Very picturesque, sir.’

  Fleming made a strange throaty noise, the nearest he could get to a chuckle. ‘Carol, I do believe you’re teasing me.’

  ‘No, sir, it’s just -’

  Fleming held up his hand. ‘It’s perfectly all right, Carol. Just humour me.’

  He picked up the china cup and saucer. First blowing on the surface of the tea to cool it, he took a sip. He savoured it a moment, then put the cup and saucer down. ‘So, what do we have on today?’ he asked.

  Carol consulted her notebook. ‘You have a meeting at eleven with the Heads of Department, to discuss last quarter’s drop in penetration. Lunch at your Club at one, then Jon Adams from Legal is booked in to see you at three-thirty.’

  ‘What does he want?’

  ‘He wasn’t very specific when he called, sir, but he said it’s about an urgent matter you need to be involved with. He did say you would know what it’s about.’

  Fleming sat back in the chair, rubbing his forehead. ‘Oh, yes,’ he said after thinking for a moment. ‘I think I do.’

  ‘And just before you arrived,’ Carol continued, ‘Ashley Merchant called. She said she needs to speak with you, preferably in person, as a matter of great urgency.’

  ‘Really?’ Fleming looked up. ‘What time is she coming in?’

  Carol looked at her watch. ‘In about ten minutes, sir. If you like I can tell her you -’

  ‘No point. She wouldn’t believe you. At least I will get it over and done with.’

  He paused a moment, as if to say something, then reconsidered. ‘Thank you, Carol, that will be all for now.’

  ‘Sir.’ Carol closed down her notebook, and left Fleming alone in his office. Fleming looked at his watch, tutted, and started to browse through the first folder on his desk.

  He had not got very far when the door opened, and Ashley Merchant walked in. Fleming had known Merchant for many years. They worked together when they were both much less senior; and, although they had both remained at the same firm, their career paths had taken different directions. Fleming had risen to the heights of CEO, and Merchant had also progressed. Despite their history, Fleming despised her. The feeling was mutual: Fleming had a theory that her ambition was greater than she pretended, and that she envied his position of authority. Her appearance was always the same: her short not quite cropped hairstyle had remained the same for many years, as had her preference for wearing tweed suits.