The Water Room

by Christopher Fowler

  ‘Not exactly.’ Garrett fidgeted atop his stool while he sought a way to shift the facts into a better light. ‘I’ve been trying to impress on him the importance of achieving the maximum financial benefit from his inheritance, and heard you were in touch—’

  ‘Bit aggressive, these selling tactics, aren’t they?’

  ‘Pro-activity in the marketplace, pal.’

  Paul sipped his free pint, knowing that he was about to discover its price. ‘He doesn’t want to sell to you, does he?’

  Moss stepped in. He appeared to be sweating, even though the bar of the Pineapple pub on Leverton Street was cold. Theresa, the barmaid, was keeping a watchful eye on them; spotting fights before they happened was a talent that came with her job.

  ‘Listen, sonny, we’re in the middle of delicate negotiations with Mr Singh and the last thing any of us needs is you coming along and upsetting them.’

  ‘Sorry, I missed what it is you do,’ said Paul sharply, waving his forefinger between them. ‘You’re not part of this guy’s agency but you’re working with him—how does that operate?’

  ‘I’m the property developer.’ Moss had meant this as a declaration of pride; he might have announced that he was a child molester. ‘Mr Singh stands to make a lot of money by selling at the right time to the right person.’

  ‘Which you think is you. And you plan to divide his sister’s property into how many flats?’

  ‘We haven’t decided yet. They’ll be for executives, you know—beech floors, slate kitchen counters, dormer windows. King’s Cross in ten minutes, Europe in a couple of hours. Camden Council is buying up everything it can get its hands on. It’s a gold rush. There’s big money to be made.’

  ‘But Mr Singh doesn’t want to sell to you. Am I missing something?’

  Garrett realigned his matches on top of his cigarette box, next to his pint. ‘He’ll sell. He’s going to Australia.’

  ‘What’s that got to do with it?’

  ‘His oldest girl lives in Brisbane. He wants to be with her family because they’re expecting twins any day now, so he has to make a fast sale.’

  ‘So what’s the problem?’

  ‘He’ll suffer a substantial loss by letting the house go in its present state.’

  The conversation was starting to bore Paul. He watched a shoal of curled oak leaves tumbling past the pub window, battered by rain and wind. Somewhere the air was warm and scented with the sea, but not in this hemisphere. ‘I think I’m beginning to understand. The market’s stagnant at the moment and the King’s Cross interchange won’t be finished for years, but if you buy the property now, you can get your pal here to carve it up, chuck in recessed lighting and en-suite bathrooms, and be ready to make a killing when executives flood in from Europe.’

  ‘We’ll hardly make a killing on one property, Mr Farrow. It’s a toe in the water until we’re ready to take on larger conversions in the surrounding area. But we’re keen to see whether it will work. Number 5 Balaklava can become a template for other properties in the neighbourhood.’

  ‘Listen, the question is academic, because the Singh guy has already agreed to sell to my girlfriend. He likes her.’

  ‘But there’s nothing in writing between you,’ smiled Garrett. ‘I think the game is still open. I would be in a position to compensate you for the inconvenience of switching your attention to another property—’

  ‘From your own books, the asking price of which you’d mark up by the size of your bribe.’

  Garrett removed a white envelope from his briefcase and placed it on the bar between them. ‘Listen, lad, we’re businessmen, not comedy gangsters, and this is just a reimbursement cheque, standard business practice, something you probably don’t understand. Think of it as payment for having done our groundwork.’

  ‘I haven’t done anything.’

  ‘Your girlfriend spoke with Mr Singh and talked up the idea of selling. She’s paved the way. So in effect, you’ve been freelancing for us, and we’d like to repay you for your efforts. All you have to do is let us put the property in our name.’

  ‘You guys are amazing.’ Paul shook his head in wonder. ‘Take a look around you.’ He ran his hand over the polished counter. ‘How old would you say this pub is?’

  Garrett looked at Moss, puzzled. ‘I don’t know. The fittings are original, maybe 1870?’

  ‘A couple of years ago, a property company tried to tear the pub down and turn it into offices. The street’s residents put up a fight until the council was forced to list the bar, and the company backed off. Now it’s the most popular local in these parts. They’re on to people like you around here. I’m surprised you got through the door without setting off the Scumbag Alarm.’

  ‘You won’t be able to go to the council on this one, Mr Farrow.’ Garrett’s smile faded as he took back the envelope. ‘Balaklava Street has nothing worth listing, the place is filthy and the floors are rotten. You’ll need new electrics, new plumbing, a new roof, damp courses. It’ll cost you a fortune to do up. It’s only good for pulling down and starting again, and you’ll never get the planning permission without throwing a lot of cash at Camden. You just missed the gravy train.’

  ‘Then why are you looking so miserable about it?’ Paul rose to leave. He needed some fresh air, but for now the streets of north London would have to do. ‘Thanks for the drink.’

  ‘River water,’ said Oswald Finch testily. ‘Which word don’t you understand?’

  ‘She was sitting in a chair, not fished out of the Thames,’ replied Bryant. ‘How can it be river water?’

  ‘Do you know what the most popular murder weapon is in Britain? A screwdriver. Have you ever brought me a screwdriver victim? No, I get human sacrifices, torsos in bin-bags and curare poisonings. Just once you could bring me an open-and-shut job. A nice simple confession on the statement—He came toward me so I hit him. Common assault not good enough for you?’

  Bryant looked around at the depressing green walls of the Bayham Street Mortuary. The fierce overhead strip-lighting buzzed like the faint memory of a head injury. The police building had been converted from a Victorian school, and had so far defied all attempts at modernization. Rumbling steel extractor ducts had been set into the ceiling to alleviate the emetic smell of chemicals, but it still looked like a place where Death would choose to sit and read a paper. Finch’s countenance, peering over a plastic sheet at him like a doleful hatchet, added an extra layer of gloom to the proceedings.

  ‘Which river did it come from?’ asked Bryant. ‘When will the sample be back?’

  ‘It’s already back. Your lad Kershaw brought it over a few minutes ago. I rather like him. He seems to know what he’s doing, which makes a pleasant change in your place.’

  ‘That’s odd, you never like anyone. Have you noticed how fruit gums don’t have any taste since they stopped putting artificial flavours in them?’ Bryant proffered the tube. ‘I shouldn’t eat them, they stick to my plate. I don’t see the old lady anywhere.’

  ‘I’ve put Mrs Singh away. She’s to be spared the indignity of any further exposure in this room. Look at the lights they’ve put in, it’s like McDonald’s.’

  ‘Smells like it as well. Have you been cooking meat?’

  ‘I caught my assistant eating a doner kebab in here last night. I warned him that his dietary habits could legally invalidate us. This is supposed to be a sterile zone, although I’ve lost count of the number of times I’ve found your cough drops in a body bag. My toxicology database makes no provision for boiled sweets. Ah, here’s your Mr Kershaw now.’

  Bryant was amazed. Oswald Finch was clearly taken with the new recruit. Perhaps he knew about Kershaw’s powerful political connections, although at his advanced age he couldn’t be hoping for promotion. Kershaw was wide-eyed, bespectacled, blond and unironed, with a cowlick of gravity-defying hair, as tall and thin as a sparkler, a later edition of Finch. He tapped at a plastic-coated analysis data-sheet and grinned, reminding Bryant of himself i
n his early twenties. ‘Well, it’s not actually a poison,’ he told them, ‘but there’s enough muck in it to have given her a nasty stomach ache, if it had managed to travel that far. Traces of mercury and lead, various harmful nitrates and plenty of interesting bacteria, the kind of cryptosporidia that lurks about in dead water, only prevented from proliferation by low temperatures. I think we’ve got ourselves some Monster Soup.’ He slipped the page to Finch, who read the bar graphs.

  ‘What do you mean?’ Finch asked over the top of his glasses.

  Bryant smiled knowingly. ‘I think Mr Kershaw is referring to the title of a famous satirical print published in 1828, dedicated to the London water companies. It shows a horrified woman dropping her tea as she examines a drop of London water and finds it full of disgusting creatures. People drank from the Thames, which was incredibly polluted by faeces and rotting animal carcasses.’

  ‘Just so,’ Kershaw agreed, nodding vigorously.

  ‘You’re saying this is Thames water?’ asked Finch.

  ‘Exactly.’ Bryant found himself concurring with the new boy.

  ‘The kind of bacteria you find in dead water?’

  ‘That’s right.’

  ‘But the Thames isn’t dead. Far from it.’

  ‘Sorry, perhaps I didn’t make myself clear. It’s Thames water, all right, but extremely stagnated.’

  ‘Does it taste bad?’

  ‘Really,’ Finch complained, ‘how would he know a thing like that?’

  ‘Oh, absolutely vile,’ said Kershaw, happy to answer the question. He turned to Finch. ‘Naturally I did a taste test to see if she could possibly have ingested it by mistake, but I think it’s highly unlikely.’ He shoved his glasses back up his nose. ‘I checked with Mr Banbury about the contents of her kettle—I had an odd thought she might somehow have filled it from an unclean source, but no, pure London ring-main water from her kitchen tap, fewer trace elements than many bottled designer waters.’

  ‘Then I can’t imagine what it was doing in her mouth.’ Bryant offered Kershaw a fruit gum.

  ‘That’s your job to find out, isn’t it?’ snapped Finch, annoyed by the shifting loyalties around him. ‘Meanwhile, I can tell you we’re heading for an open verdict.’

  ‘Why, what’s the cause of death?’

  ‘Heart stopped beating.’

  ‘Yes, I know that—’ Bryant began.

  ‘No, I mean it just stopped beating. No reason.’

  ‘There has to be a reason.’

  ‘No, there doesn’t,’ Finch replied stubbornly. ‘Sudden death can happen to anyone at any time, although one is more vulnerable at particular ages, especially in infancy and dotage.’ The pathologist narrowed his eyes at Bryant. ‘So you’d better watch out.’

  ‘She was in some kind of stressful situation,’ said Bryant, chewing ruminatively. ‘She must have been, with the water in her mouth. It would be easy for us to make the biggest mistake of all.’

  ‘What’s that?’ asked Kershaw.

  ‘Insist on a logical explanation.’ Bryant jammed his shapeless hat back over his ears. ‘She might simply have lost her wits. We only have hearsay on her mental health. The Royal Free appears to have mislaid her hospital notes.’

  She looked beautiful tonight, seated with the shining water at her back, her dark-blond hair bobbed to the jawline above pale bare shoulders. ‘I don’t get it,’ said Paul, guiltily taking his seat at the table. ‘We never come to restaurants like this.’ The great glass wall of the Oxo Tower revealed a segment of the restless river. Beyond its bank, sharp pinpoints of blue-white light scratched and sparked as welders worked late into the night. A new city of steel and glass was rising.

  ‘We do when we can afford it,’ she told him, ‘and when we’ve got things to celebrate.’

  He raised his eyebrows. ‘Things? You have a list?’

  She ticked her fingers. ‘First, you saw off the wicked, moustache-twirling property barons, and now they’ve officially renounced interest in the house.’

  ‘How do you know this?’

  ‘Mr Singh called me this afternoon. He had an argument with either Garrett or Moss, I forget which. They appear to have decided that it’s too much trouble, and are washing their hands of the whole business. Second . . .’

  ‘What, they gave up just like that?’

  ‘Maybe you made them feel guilty. Maybe they’ve found another sick old lady sitting on a goldmine nearer the terminus. More importantly, I’ve got the money and I’m buying the house for us.’

  ‘How can you do that?’

  ‘Ah, this is one of those little things we’ve never actually talked about.’ Kallie sat back with a secret smile as the waiter poured wine. ‘I don’t often say it, but thank God for having a stage mother. I was going on shoots for baby clothes before I could even walk. I carried on with catalogue work right through school. My mother called it rainy-day money. I think it’s raining now, don’t you?’

  ‘Yes, but—’

  ‘It’s finally time to use it for something useful. Can you believe old Hoppit and Toad wanted to flatten the place and squeeze not two but four flats on to the site? Apparently they were talking about bunging some councillors to let them build another floor, but they only wanted to pay Mr Singh once the planning permission came through. Obviously, he doesn’t intend to wait for months while they screw around with architects and builders. He just wants to see his daughter and his grandchildren. Besides, he has another reason for wanting to divest himself of the house. It hurts him to have it, Paul, his sister died there. He says she received hate mail, racist stuff, and it upset her badly. He doesn’t ever want to set foot inside the place again. Can you blame him? I can deal with his solicitor, and that way he can go as soon as he likes. I’ve got enough ready cash for the deposit and I can just about raise the mortgage on my own, but I’ll need you to kick in with money for the work that needs doing. We can do it, Paul.’

  ‘I haven’t even seen the place. And my job’s risky at the moment. I could be out of work any day now—’

  ‘It’s got a spare room and a garden.’

  He misunderstood her. ‘You’re right, we’ll need somewhere for the baby.’ He raised his glass. ‘That’s another reason to celebrate, isn’t it?’

  ‘Yes, that’s a reason to celebrate.’

  ‘Then let’s have a toast.’ He studied her carefully. ‘To the baby.’

  ‘The baby.’ Kallie raised her glass, and tried not to catch his eye.

  ‘You’re not pregnant, are you?’

  Her eyes held his. ‘No.’

  ‘Why did you tell me you were?’

  He didn’t seem angry, and she found herself resenting his obvious relief. ‘I don’t—I wasn’t trying to—’ The words dried in her mouth.

  ‘It doesn’t matter.’ He reached across the table and cupped her hands in his. He seemed to have finally made up his mind about something. ‘Do you understand? It doesn’t matter.’

  ‘Paul—’

  The waiter had arrived with the starter, but discreetly stood to one side. The other diners watched them kiss, but being British, pretended not to notice. Outside, the first heavy squalls of rain prickled the river.

  7

  * * *

  HOME AND DRY

  ‘You don’t understand what it’s like, and I have no way of explaining to you,’ said April. Hands trembling faintly, she relit her cigarette. Her purloined Michelin ashtray had filled with Silk Cut in the last half-hour. It was the only untidied thing in a room filled with carefully arranged mementoes from a happier life. ‘I know Arthur meant well, but I just can’t do it.’

  ‘I’m trying to understand,’ said John May. ‘Please, let me help you.’

  She shook out her hair as though the idea was preposterous. ‘How? What can you do? You have no idea.’ Her pale fringe fell forward, hiding her face. She appeared healthier than he had expected, but the off-kilter body language that had so long hinted at some unspecified disquiet had become habit
, so that she appeared hunched. She had been living in the shadow of the past for so long that it seemed any emergence into daylight might melt her away.

  ‘April, I’ve been in the police force all my life, I’ve dealt with every kind of situation imaginable. In my experience—’

  ‘That’s the problem, this isn’t in your experience. It’s not something that can be cured by making an arrest.’ Her voice was as thin and cracked as spring ice. ‘You’ve had a lifetime of good health, you think you’re invincible, you come from a generation that doesn’t understand why people can’t just pull themselves together, but it’s not that simple.’

  ‘I know it’s been tough for you—’

  ‘Why do you talk as if it’s in the past? It’s still tough for me. I want to work. I want to stand outside, beneath a vast blue sky. I want to be able to pass a stranger in the street without feeling terrified. But I open the front door and the world comes in like a tidal wave.’ She hid her eyes behind her hand. He recalled the fierce methylene blue of her irises as a child. It seemed that the colour had faded from them since.

  Agoraphobia was the latest spectre to haunt April in her battle to cope with her mother’s death. John May’s granddaughter had grown ill soon after Elizabeth died. Years of therapy had made little difference to her. John loved her with the desperation of someone who had seen too many others fall, but saw a damaging blankness inside her heart that no one could fill. Lost siblings, dead parents, the whispered cruelties of children drawn too close—May’s family had been so unlucky that it was hard not to believe that some dark star trailed them, bringing harm and hardship in its wake.

  Three months earlier, following signs of improvement and a positive report from her doctor, Arthur Bryant had put April forward as a candidate for a new law-enforcement training initiative. The Chief Association of Police Officers had invited non-professionals to train alongside detectives in an exercise designed to bridge the widening gulf between police and public. It had seemed an ideal opportunity to protect April while allowing her to rediscover some independence, but now she had suffered a relapse, retreating further back into the shadows of her bleakly pristine flat.