Adam And Eve And Pinch Me

by Ruth Rendell

  On the journey he turned over the facts in his mind and saw that, come what might, his career was in ruins. There was nothing left to salvage from the wreck. He was branded a bigamist, which he could perhaps feebly deny, and a practicing homosexual, which he couldn’t deny and no longer wanted to. And he had been questioned as a suspect in a murder case. All those years of campaigning, accepting the offer of a hopeless candidature in the industrial Midlands before getting at last a safe seat, all those Fridays or Saturdays spent in appointments, all that rattling about the county in a Winnebago, all that speech-making and fête-opening and baby-cuddling-how he disliked children!-and lying to pensioners and huntsmen and pro-vivisectionists and hospital patients and schoolteachers, all of it an utter waste of time. The Party would probably expel him, take away the whip, send him to Coventry. There was no possibility of his ever making his way back. He was done for. He could only be thankful that he had an unbreakable alibi for the Friday afternoon when that miscreant Jerry Leach was killed. And that, whatever she might think, he’d pulled a fast one on Zillah.

  At an exit leading to a couple of villages he pulled off the main road. It was three-quarters of an hour past noon. He drove to a hotel he knew-in the days when he was carefree, he and Ivo Carew had once spent a pleasant weekend there-and ordered lunch. But his appetite failed him and he couldn’t eat a thing.

  Before she went down to the reporters Zillah had dressed herself and the children with great care and forethought. She’d devoted a lot of time to planning it the night before. Eugenie and Jordan wore the uniform of fashionable upper-middle-class children in summertime at the turn of the millennium: white sneakers, white shorts, white T-shirts, with stripes in Jordan’s case and modish spots in Eugenie’s. Zillah herself was in white trousers and a blue shirt with plunging neckline. Remembering what some awful journalist had said about her shoes, she’d put on flat sandals.

  Eugenie hadn’t wanted to wear shorts and at first had refused flatly: “I’m not that sort of girl. You ought to know by now. I either wear long trousers or a dress. You ought to know.”

  “I’ll make it worth your while,” said Zillah recklessly. “Five pounds.”

  “Ten.”

  “You’ll come to a bad end.” Zillah used the same words her mother had used to her twenty years before.

  Jordan sniveled. Zillah had thought of quietening him in some positive and dramatic way, such as by giving him a tot of whisky, but she’d lost her nerve and had resorted to junior aspirin instead. It had had no effect.

  She smiled charmingly at the reporters and posed, holding a hand of each child, for the photographers. Jordan stopped crying for five minutes, fascinated by the biggest dog Zillah had ever seen that one of the cameramen had brought with him. She said she had something for them all and passed out copies of a statement she’d done on Jims’s computer the night before. It said that everything in that morning’s paper was true and she’d only like to add that she’d be standing by her husband and supporting him through thick and thin. She and he had spoken several times on the phone that morning and she’d assured him of her devotion and her determination to be a rock for him to cling to. She answered only one question before retiring into the building with dignity.

  A young woman with a Yorkshire accent asked her if Jims was bisexual.

  “I’m sure he won’t mind my saying that yes, he is. Everything has to come out into the open now.” In one of Malina’s favorite phrases, she added that trust and caring “must be the building blocks of our new relationship.”

  Jordan burst into fresh tears. Satisfied with what she had done, Zillah carried him up in the lift. After the interviews and the photographs she felt rather flat. She was in the position of having absolutely nothing to do. When would Jims get back? It was a lie she’d told the newspaper people when she’d said she and Jims had spoken several times that morning. She knew he wouldn’t phone and she’d no intention of phoning him. But he’d be home and she wasn’t going to be there when he came if she could help it. When she’d rejected the idea of the cinema, swimming pools, and the various entertainments on offer at the Trocadero, she took the children out to lunch at McDonald’s and then on a river boat to the Thames Barrier. The water was calm and the motion slow, but Jordan was sick and cried all the way home.

  They returned to the flat at six and Jims still wasn’t back. Unless he’d come in and gone out again. She suspected this wasn’t so and was proved right within ten minutes. By that time she’d changed into a pair of beach pajamas she’d bought at a shop at The Cross, remembered her father was ill but didn’t phone her mother, and put both children in the bath. The front door opened and closed. When she turned round she saw Jims standing in the doorway. His face was pale and he looked racked with anxiety.

  “I’m just going to phone my mother,” she said nervously.

  “Not now,” he said, and “May I get you a drink?” in the silky tones he used when he was either very pleased or very angry.

  She didn’t know whether to say yes or no. She rinsed her hands under the tap and dried them. “A gin and tonic, please.” Her voice came out rather timidly. She followed him into the living room.

  He brought her the drink and stood over her for a moment or two. There was nothing threatening in his stance but he himself was a threat to her and she flinched. He laughed, a bitter, dry laugh. “I’ve seen the newspaper,” he said, sitting down. “I suppose it’s a newspaper, I don’t know what else to call it. And I’ve talked to the media. A bit OTT, wasn’t it?”

  “Wasn’t what?”

  “The things you said to La Reckman. And the photograph you gave her. Did I really deserve that?”

  “Of course you did, the way you’ve treated me.”

  A wail came from the bathroom and Eugenie walked in, wearing her nightdress and dressing gown. She looked at Jims as a householder might look at a dog turd on the doorstep but said nothing. “I’m not getting him out of the bath,” she said to Zillah. “He’s your responsibility, as I keep telling you. He says his tummy hurts.”

  Zillah went. So, after a moment or two, did Eugenie, returning in a few seconds with a book. Jims’s world had ended but he meant to die bravely, triumphantly exacting vengeance. He took out of his pocket a packet of cigarettes and lit one. It was the first he’d had for six months and it made him feel a bit faint, but he savored it and thought he might start smoking seriously again. Nobody would admonish him now, no one would ask questions in the Commons Chamber about disgusting habits, no one would suggest he set a good example. He inhaled and his vision swam. If he hadn’t been sitting down he’d have fallen over. Jordan’s yelling heralded his entry into the room.

  Zillah came after him. “Why are you smoking?”

  “Because I like it,” said Jims. “Put that child to bed.”

  “There’s no need to talk like that. He hasn’t done you any harm.”

  “No, his mother has.” He got up and switched on the television. A cartoon happened to be on and for five minutes Jordan was quiet.

  “Give me a cigarette, please.”

  “Buy your own. God knows, I give you enough money.” Jims drew showily on his cigarette, blowing smoke into Zillah’s face. “I don’t expect you to be out of here until Friday,” he said. “I am, in fact, giving you a week’s notice.”

  “Now, wait a minute. You can’t do that. If anyone goes, you do. You’re married to me, remember? I’m your legal wife. I’ve got children and therefore a right to your home.”

  “You didn’t really believe in that marriage ceremony, did you, my dear? I wouldn’t have credited that the wool could so easily be pulled over your eyes. You believed Kate Carew was a registrar? You actually swallowed Kevin Jebb as a witness? You and I haven’t even been cohabiting. Neither of our so-called marriages was consummated. You’re just a friend I’ve taken in when you hadn’t a roof over your head. Out of the goodness of my heart.”

  Zillah stared at him. She couldn’t speak.

  “B
ut I grant you’ve grounds for expecting some sort of maintenance from me. So I spent the morning negotiating a purchase with an estate agent. I’ve also had a pleasant chat with the owner. That’s why I was so late back. And I’m glad to say the sale’s been agreed. I’ve bought Willow Cottage for you. Aren’t you pleased?”

  As Zillah began to scream, Eugenie looked up from the floor and said, “Mummy, do you mind? I can’t hear the TV.”

  Chapter 28

  A BOY DELIVERING papers found Eileen Dring’s body at six forty-five on Sunday morning. He was just sixteen and it gave him a bad shock. The body was still on the seat where Eileen Dring had settled for the night. But for the blood that had soaked through her clothes and the blanket with which she had covered herself, she would have seemed asleep. Perhaps she had been stabbed in her sleep and had known nothing about it.

  The police knew her. There were no problems of identification. For several years she had had a room in Jakarta Road off Mill Lane in West Hampstead, paid for by Camden Council, but she had seldom lived in it, preferring to wander the streets and sleep out of doors, at least in summer. Kilburn and Maida Vale and Paddington Recreation Ground were among her haunts. They had never known her to come as far west as this. But Eileen was known to love flowers and had once been observed sleeping in the doorway of an empty building that had formerly been a bank, on the corner of Maida Vale and Clifton Road. It happened to be very close to where the flower and plant seller would pitch his stall in the morning, and perhaps she’d chosen it in anticipation of waking up to the scent of carnations and roses in the morning. The site of her death, the seat on which she was lying, was just in front of a crescent-shaped flower bed, at present red, white, and pink with geraniums, among which lay the detritus of meals and drinks consumed on the street.

  It took only a short time to establish that the knife used to stab her was very similar to the one that killed Jeffrey Leach. Similar but not identical. Possibly one of a pair bought at the same time. So advanced are forensics by now that investigators can tell precisely the shape and size of a weapon used in these circumstances, the nicks, if any, on its blade, any minuscule unevenness in that blade’s surface, for a knife itself is unique. So they knew it wasn’t the knife but its twin.

  The motive for the killing of Jeffrey Leach remained obscure but the motive for this one at first seemed transparent. The holdall Eileen carried with her, which lay under her head, usually held a blanket and a cardigan and scarf, a can of fizzy drink-she was strictly teetotal-a sandwich or two as well as her pension book. It was empty. There should also have been money, for Eileen had drawn two weeks’ pension the day before and had spent only a little of it on the food and drink. Does anyone do murder for £140? Violent Crimes knows it’s done for half that, for a quarter; it’s done for the price of ten grams of cannabis.

  On the other hand, they were sure Eileen was the victim of Jeffrey Leach’s killer and the question of financial profit hadn’t entered into that. So were there any links between the two victims apart from the close similarity of the weapons used? How about West Hampstead?

  Leach had been living there for the six months prior to his death. Jakarta Road was two streets away from Holmdale Road, running parallel to it but linked by a cross street, Athena Road. Although they were yet to discover whether Eileen had ever frequented Holmdale, West Hampstead police-the police station was in Fortune Green Road-knew Athena Road to be a favorite pitch of hers. Twice they’d moved her on when she’d been found sleeping on someone’s front lawn between the flower borders. Had she tried the same experiment in camping in the gardens of Holmdale Road?

  Sunday had passed without Jims addressing a word to her. He stayed at home, but in silence. It was as if he’d lost the use of his tongue. Zillah wouldn’t have believed until she experienced it that anyone could behave like that, not simply not speaking, but acting as if he were alone in the place. The children and she might have been inanimate objects or pieces of furniture for all the notice he took of them. It was as if they had become inaudible and invisible, and she’d hardly have been surprised if, seeking a chair to settle himself into, he’d sat on one of them or on her.

  This policy of ignoring them made her, against her will and determination, conciliatory toward him. She prepared quite a nice lunch of scrambled eggs and smoked salmon with a salad, offered him the dishes, poured him a glass of wine. He took no notice of any of it but went to the kitchen, returning with a sandwich he’d made himself and beer which he drank out of the can. She found herself looking wistfully at him and forced her head to turn away. The afternoon he spent at his desk, apparently writing letters. She couldn’t help thinking that if only he’d been of a different sexual orientation she could have won him over, seduced him, charmed him, but if he’d been different she knew very well she wouldn’t have been with him in the first place.

  At about five Moon and Stars Television rang. Eugenie answered and gave the response she always did if Zillah failed to get to the phone first.

  “She’s not available.”

  Zillah snatched the receiver from her. The woman at the other end wanted to say that they were afraid they couldn’t send a car in the morning after all. Of course she could still come under her own steam if she liked. Zillah, sensing she was no longer the attraction she once had been, thought she did like, though she was longer quite sure. At any rate, she agreed. It would mean getting up at five-thirty in the morning but it would be worth it. She could charm them, she could bewitch her audience. The phone rang again almost immediately. It was the cleaner from number nine to say she couldn’t manage babysitting in the morning after all.

  Zillah looked at Jims. He appeared to be signing his letters. She was afraid to ask him. She’d just leave the children in the flat. After all, he’d be there, and with luck no one would wake up until she was back home again. Eugenie wouldn’t leave her brother to scream, would she?

  Jims turned on the television news at five thirty-five, sat inscrutably through items about floods in Gujarat, ongoing strife in Zimbabwe, and the murder of an old woman in Kensal Green, before seeing himself scarlet-faced, then sheltering his flush behind his briefcase, as he emerged from the front door of Fredington Crucis House. The children watched it and so did Zillah, occasionally turning her eyes to cast fearful glances in Jims’s direction. He wasn’t blushing now but had become even whiter. The pictures weren’t new, they’d appeared the evening before, but now they were followed by comments from all sorts of Party dignitaries including the chairman of the South Wessex Conservatives who said stoutly that he had complete confidence in Mr. Melcombe-Smith and in his shortly being able to give clear replies to all the questions that still remained unanswered.

  “Why is my stepfather on the TV?” asked Eugenie.

  No one answered her. The phone rang, Jims answered it, put the receiver back without a word, and pulled out the plug. Unnerved, Zillah went into her bedroom, taking the children with her. Jordan had begun to whimper.

  She dressed with great care. If real work came out of this interview, if it led to celebrity and getting her own television show, she wouldn’t have to leave London and go back to Willow Cottage. Jims had said, in a nasty sarcastic tone-on Saturday night, when he’d still had a tongue-that she’d like the cottage very much now, the new decorations made all the difference. “Especially the lovely contemporary fitted kitchen,” he’d added, as if that kind of language were habitual with her. But she wouldn’t like it and wild horses would have to drag her there.

  She put on her favorite white suit with a coral red shirt because she’d heard that bright colors do best on television. Would they make her up or expect her to have done it herself? Zillah couldn’t contemplate going out into the street in London without makeup on. Long Fredington was another matter and the very thought of it made her shiver. Once she was back from Moon and Stars and had taken Jordan to the child psychiatrist, she’d find herself a solicitor and see what could be done to force Jims out of the flat. Somet
hing must be possible.

  It was pouring rain. She’d left the flat on tiptoe, putting her key in the lock to close the door silently. She couldn’t go back for a raincoat or an umbrella. Fearing for her hair and her flimsy shoes, she tried to shelter under an overhanging portico while hailing a taxi but the result of this was that other people got there before her. She had to come out and get wet. The cab driver who finally stopped grinned at her rats’-tail hair.

  But Zillah soon discovered that she need not have worried. Another woman going on the program looked, in her tracksuit and unmade-up state, as if she’d just got out of bed. The makeup department dealt with all that, dried Zillah’s hair, cleaned her shoes, redid her face. The other woman told her confidingly that she’d been appearing on shows of this kind for years. She’d go along wearing laddered tights, knowing they’d give her a new pair. Zillah was shocked but delighted to learn these tricks of the trade. She’d begun to feel a lot better.

  But when the program began and she was able to watch it, sitting with the other interviewees-to-be in a waiting room, she realized something she must have been told but that hadn’t sunk in. It was live. There would be no rehearsal, no preparation, and no chance to say she hadn’t meant that, cut that, please, or can we go back? The questions were very searching and even the inexperienced could tell they weren’t kind. A young man, who looked very young, put his head round the door and beckoned to the tights woman. She would be the next-Zillah found herself using the word “victim.”