by Syd Moore
‘I know,’ I said. ‘And not everyone who is mentally ill is mad.’
‘That’s an interesting statement for you to make. I never thought you were big on nuance.’
‘It’s my middle name,’ I said, making a note to look it up later. I had a vague understanding of it though the word itself put me in mind of clouds for some reason.
Joel was tucking himself up, retreating once more into the folds of cloth. ‘But we all saw the chandelier and the words on the wall,’ he sulked.
‘Yes,’ Sam interjected. ‘And that would lead me to believe that it was a human hand that had written the slogan, possibly for that very reason. For everyone to see.’
‘But that’s going to make the customers cancel. They so flighty. It could ruin—’ Joel stopped as an invisible light bulb went on over his head. ‘But Mary heard groans. And,’ he sat up and wagged an accusatory finger at me, ‘she seen her close up. A few times.’
‘That could be pareidolia, though,’ I said in a kind of ‘wise’ voice as Joel’s phone went off.
The kitchen boy uncurled and smiled at the screen. Licking his lips he scrambled to his feet. ‘Gotta take this,’ he said, than legged it from the table greyhound-quick.
A cheer went up around the TV screen. I looked over and saw six footballers on the telly hugging and slobbering over each other in a demonstration of heterosexual respect and camaraderie. Yeah, right.
When I looked back Sam was leaning over the table, arms folded, staring at his notebook.
So?’ I said.
‘Working in reverse,’ he said, not moving his eyes. ‘It seems we’ve got a murder.’ He picked up his pencil and tapped a couple of sentences at the top of the page. He’d underlined them both.
‘Yeah,’ I said. ‘Nasty. Cut throat.’ The words made me shudder again.
‘Some threatening and gruesome writing on the wall. Then ghost sightings.’ He laid the pencil neatly at the bottom of the page. ‘Hard to imagine these things aren’t connected.’
I agreed. ‘Someone’s trying to mess with their heads?’ It seemed the obvious solution.
‘Or slice them off altogether,’ said Sam. ‘Which means, dear Rosie Nuance Strange, we should take much care to keep hold of ours.’
CHAPTER FIVE
After fifteen minutes Sam went outside to look for Joel. When he came back shaking his head I realised the kitchen boy had scarpered.
We finished up our drinks and then decided we should call Ray Boundersby. He was our client after all, and it sounded like he could use us.
I went straight through to voicemail so left a message.
But when we were on our way back to the car my phone rang. And it was him.
‘Listen,’ he said. He had a brownish voice streaked with the East End. ‘Sounds like you know the score. I’m with Mary at the station. Now, they’re barking up the wrong tree here but they’re barking hard. We don’t reckon they’ll be charging her anytime soon, so they’ll have to let us go at some point. I want you round her flat by nine o’clock tomorrow morning.’
‘I’m sorry, Mr Boundersby,’ I told him. ‘I’ve got to work tomorrow. I think Sam will be able to make it though—’
‘Don’t talk nonsense, girl,’ he growled. ‘For starters, I’ll double your fee.’ It was already quite healthy enough, to be honest. ‘And for dessert, I’ll serve you this – it’s not that I don’t take no for an answer. It’s just that nobody’s ever said it since the 1987 job with Frankie the Flyover. Not that any connection could ever be proved. In court. So see you tomorrow.’ And he hung up.
Sam was waiting. ‘Well?’
I was fond of my kneecaps. I wanted to keep them. Intact, preferably.
‘I think I’m going to take my first sickie,’ I said.
Then I told him why.
When my phone buzzed again I jumped so high I nearly punched myself a sunroof.
It was a text from Ray with Mary’s address.
‘That’s north London,’ Sam commented. ‘I won’t be able to make it up in time. The connections from Adder’s Fork are notorious.’
I stared at him blankly.
‘Any room at the inn?’ he said, trying to send me what I think he thought was a cheeky grin.
‘There’s a small spare room but it’s filled with junk,’ I told him.
‘Sounds like a home from home,’ he smiled.
Inside my stomach a butterfly began fluttering hopefully.
It took us the best part of an hour to get back to Leytonstone.
My flat was in a purpose-built block on a road that led down to the high street. On the far corner there was a bar that attracted a crowd of youngish people and locals during the week. Though at the weekends when it played thumping house music late into the night it was mostly populated by flashy coke-heads.
So I was surprised when we parked up and Sam suggested we have a drink there later.
‘It’s open mic tonight,’ I said ominously.
‘Great.’ He clapped his hands together with something approaching enthusiasm. ‘Spoken word?’
I stopped myself from laughing out loud. ‘More like X Factor rejects and wannabe stars of the West End. That sort of stuff. They seem to always end it by murdering the Kings of Leon. It’s terrible.’
‘Is that legal?’ asked Sam and I laughed, then realised he didn’t know who the Kings of Leon were.
‘Well, let’s see how it goes. We’ve got the evening to ourselves,’ he said, almost affable. ‘We don’t have to decide now.’
My flat was a wide, clean rectangle, mostly glass on the outside wall and white paint on the inside. It was made up of one long room on the side that looked towards the bar. This was an open-plan space comprised of kitchen, dining room and living area. Behind this was a small bathroom. On the opposite side was the master bedroom with small en suite, and two box rooms, one of which I had annexed as a walk-in dressing room. The other doubled as a laundry/junk room and occasional guest accommodation. I had an Ikea chair that turned into a bed. It was already in its bed form, from when my friend Cerise had last crashed, so I changed the sheets, shifted the laundry basket and squirted some air freshener about the place.
I was on the fourth floor, which was irritating when the optimistic, or possibly arbitrary, five-person-capacity lift/coffin was out of order, but a bonus on evenings like this, when the sun had finally broken through the cloud and I could sit out on the balcony and bask in the last of its rays. Being to the east we got a good view of the City with its nest of skyscrapers and, though Leytonstone was seven miles from central London, I always felt that wasn’t too far from the glitz if I ever fancied popping over.
‘Nice,’ said Sam, once he’d given the place a once-over and stowed away his equipment and spare pants.
I got out a bottle of wine. To my great surprise he expressed a desire to have a glass. In my experience Sam didn’t drink much at all. Well, not like a normal person. But here he was looking quite relaxed, which was odd considering we’d just been to the scene of a crime. A murder in fact. Though, on later reflection, I thought that considering his field of study it might have made him feel like he was on familiar turf – the macabre was his bread and butter after all.
I suggested we enjoy the view on the balcony and he followed me out.
There wasn’t a great deal of depth out there but it had a good length running from the kitchen down to the living area which was at least twenty-four feet. My neighbours, Peter and Sue, who did something unknown in the City had put up some wicker fencing where our balconies met, presumably to stop me looking over if we were out at the same time. Not that I wanted to: I’d suggested to her a few months back that she probably shouldn’t go near Lycra, but evidently Sue ignored good advice. Peter was also a big man, swaddled in layers of fat, in possession of a neat trim face with a little light-brown goatee. However, beneath that his chin sloped into his chest, which in turn barrelled out to his stomach. In profile, he put me in mind of a small human ski slope. He liked to relax
outside with his top off. When they got pissed, they got frisky and chased each other round the flat. It was like having a ringside seat at London Zoo when the seals were in season. Even before they’d stuck up the wicker I’d erected my own grow-bag in the hope that bulbous green tomatoes might put them off a bit or make them think of food or at the very least block the view. Apart from that, they were fine neighbours. Sue had a key and watered my plants whenever I was away. When they went to their flat in Alicante, I repaid the favour.
‘A lot of greenery,’ Sam said, settling down on one of the two cane recliners. There was just enough room to leave a foot-long gap between the footstool part, as long as you didn’t fully extend it, and the balcony wall. A mosaic table stood between the seats just big enough to hold a wine cooler and two glasses, which was pretty much all it ever needed to hold. Usually one. Outside the kitchen I’d positioned a patio table and two chairs if I ever wanted to dine al fresco.
I poured the wine out and we clinked glasses.
‘Not what I expected,’ said Sam and positioned a cushion behind his neck. ‘Didn’t know you had green fingers.’
To me, the balcony looked like your slightly more crowded but average Londoner’s open space. Working-class people who lived cities could rarely afford much so you had to make do with what you got. I had nothing flashy or exotic going on, just standard English classics: down from the tomatoes stood a tub of sweet peas that I was trying to cultivate. Dad had brought the young plants over from his allotment. We both loved their intense fragrance. I placed them just under the living-room window so when they bloomed, hopefully in a few months, I might be able to sit on the sofa watch CSI and breathe in their heavenly scent. Bliss.
By the kitchen window I had a few planters designed for a similar purpose – honeysuckle, lavender, jasmine – and a titchy greenhouse with some practical pots: chillies, which I was keeping a close eye on in case it was still too cold for them yet, basil, rosemary, thyme, coriander. All bought from the local Tesco Express and replanted. Splashes of colour were provided by this year’s crop of narcissi, daffs, tulips and a bunch of Dad’s hardy geraniums in cotton pinks and bright fiery reds that for some unknown reason always made me think of the 1950s. I’d popped them into hanging baskets along with some trailing lobelia that the packet had optimistically described as sky blue. Of course, I was named after a certain flower, so I had to have some of them about the place too but they weren’t going to bloom for a few more months. There was nothing extraordinary about any of it.
‘It’s pretty out here,’ Sam continued, bending over to pointlessly sniff a tulip. ‘Ethel-Rose’s parents ran a nursery. Did you know that?’
I admitted I didn’t and asked him, ‘Why, isn’t it what you expected?’ Had he anticipated a bedsit? Or maybe a three-storey house?
‘I can’t imagine you out here getting your manicure dirty. Though I suppose it’s in the genes.’
I shrugged. ‘Good nails and gardening aren’t incompatible if you wear gloves. In fact, they can come in very handy if you want to dig out small pits for seeds,’ I said. ‘Nails and gardens are more or less the same thing except one’s on your house and the others are on your body,’ I held a hand up, palm out, and admired Fang Li’s latest artwork. ‘I love looking at my nails when they’ve just been done. I love looking at my flowers in bloom. In fact, the latter’s better because I’ve helped them along myself. Well, with Dad’s help occasionally,’ I finished.
‘Avid gardener, is he?’ Sam pushed his fringe back over his forehead and took a sip of wine.
‘Allotments take up a lot of time. They’re very trendy these days: the local council waiting list has got names on it like Mungo and Josh. So if you fail to keep them well-maintained, they’ll have them off you. Dad puts in a good few hours a day now he’s retired. Actually, I think you’ll be able to meet him. He’s on his way over now.’ I raised my head and peered over the balcony wall. Cars were parked solidly up both sides of the road. That would annoy him.
‘How do you know?’ Sam straightened up decorously in expectation of elders appearing.
‘I think I heard him cough on the street.’ I hadn’t but yesterday he’d mentioned it on the phone and sometimes I could tell when he was on his way. Like close family do.
A cloud passed over Sam’s face. He swung his feet to the floor. ‘Does he, er, know about me?’
Now, that was a question. In a split second I was wondering what exactly the ‘about’ bit was. A reference to the early blossoming of romance? A relationship of sorts? Or maybe it was just about my acquisition of him, the curator, along with museum?
While all this was running through my head, I think my expression must have been either blank or confused because Sam waved his hand in the space between us like he was muddying water. He darted a fearful glance through the window at the front door. ‘I mean, does he even know I’m here?’
I let out a snigger. ‘Sam, I am a grown-up gal. I’m allowed to have gentlemen callers in my own place, you know. Just as long as they declare their intentions to my father as soon as they meet.’
He frowned.
‘Oh god, I’m joking,’ I said. ‘Dad’s fine. Very mild-mannered.’
This seemed to ease him. ‘Yes, yes, quite right.’ He smiled but threw a good two fingers of wine down his throat.
He was confusing sometimes. Well, a lot of the time, if I’m honest. There had been a recent episode when I’d seen him chatting up a barmaid. He’d shown a surprising amount of confidence: he knew he was attractive to women and he handled that well, using it when he wanted to. Then at other times he came across as old-fashioned and awkward. Nervy even. It was a paradox.
The doorbell rang.
‘Talk of the devil,’ I said, and my companion’s frown duly deepened.
I sprang up, jumping over Sam’s recliner, and slipped into the apartment.
‘Shall I …?’ He got up unsteadily but I waved him down.
‘Just relax.’
I was across the room, reaching for the Chubb lock, when the door opened and Dad blustered in carrying a large marrow and a bulging Co-op bag.
‘Got my own key remember?’ he said, closing the door.
‘Yes, for when I’m away and emergencies,’ I reminded him pointedly. ‘Oh, come on in then. Would you like a glass of wine?’
I was about to explain that I had a guest but Dad was off already. ‘You want to be careful of your liver, Rosie. I know what young people are like. Government recommends two alcohol-free days a week. You doing that? Me and your mum have Mondays. She’s thinking about Thursdays but I’ve got bridge then and, God help me, there’s no way I can get through an afternoon with Jean Taylor-Brown in my earhole without at least three units to take the edge off.’
‘I’ll think about it. Listen, Dad, I’ve got a g—’
‘No, I’m sorry. You can try to persuade me as hard as you like but I can’t stop, love. I’m on the double yellows.’ He marched straight in and headed for the kitchen, not stopping to draw breath or look around, which might have prepared him.
Sam had inched himself inside the door and was presenting with a fixed grin stapled to his face.
But Dad had trooped into the kitchen and begun removing purple-sprouting broccoli from the Co-op bag. ‘Don’t know why you choose to live round here, really I don’t. Parking is dreadful. Trendy though, isn’t it? Price you pay, I suppose. Price I pay, more like.’ He emptied the remaining tips and groped around the bottom of the plastic back. ‘Fish stew in here from yer mother. She said make sure it’s heated through, as she left it on the side for half an hour.’ He plonked a rectangular Tupperware box on the counter next to the broccoli mountain and raised his head in my direction. ‘Mind you, I stuck in a couple of Scotch bonnets so the chances of anything living in it are about the same as finding Elvis tending bar down the Conservative Club.’
Then he stopped speaking. His mouth remained open for just a fraction of a second longer as his brain tried to compute the
man standing next to me.
‘Dad, this is Sam,’ I said watching him politely convert his astonishment into a smile.
Dad was about the same height as Sam, though used to be taller, and I could see him stretching himself now. He took off the cap that he had on, revealing his bald patch, and lifted his pale grey eyebrows to survey the other male.
Sam took advantage of the pause in Dad’s monologue to introduce himself with proffered hand. ‘Good to meet you, Mr Strange.’
My dad stared at him a moment then put down his cap. Wiping his vegetable-stained digits against the pockets of his cardigan, he grasped Sam’s hand and shook it over the counter.
It looked friendly.
‘Very pleased to meet you,’ said Dad.
Sam countered, ‘You too, Mr Strange. Septimus told me a lot about you.’
If I could have foreseen the effect of the curator’s words then I would have stashed him in the broom cupboard and told him to shush up, for within seconds Dad’s face changed entirely.
First it went blank, then less than a second later his lips opened and he blew out noisily and for a very long time, eventually sucking the air back in so hard it made a whistling sound. Three times he blinked. I could see the colour was draining out of him though he was attempting to rouse himself. This, however, took some visible effort.
He managed to squeak, ‘Well then,’ before his frame began to crumple.
Tearing his hand out of Sam’s he reached for his chest and then, scarily, pitched down on to the counter.
Both Sam and I made for him.
In an unlikely display of heroic agility, my colleague vaulted over the worktop while I swung round it and caught Dad under the armpits.
‘It’s all right,’ Dad was saying between choking sounds.
We manoeuvred him over to a dining chair, still conscious, thank god. ‘Indigestion,’ he murmured.
‘Shall I call a doctor?’ Sam asked, mobile in hand and clearly worried.
‘No,’ Dad said. ‘No fuss.’ His lips had gone a sort of bluish colour, his eyes red-rimmed and sunken in the shadows of his sockets. ‘Water.’