by Isla Dewar
Chrissie obliged. Sophie watched. Chrissie filled the kettle, put it on to boil and quizzed Duncan. How long had he known Sophie?
‘Years and years,’ he told her. ‘We were childhood sweethearts.’
‘Lovely. Oh, I adore that. And what is it you do?’
‘I write. History books. Textbooks, actually. But I enjoy it. Keeps me occupied.’
Chrissie threw back her head and laughed. Too much, Sophie thought. This woman is overdoing the mirth. Now she was making the simple question about what Duncan took in his tea sound nurturing and sexy. When Duncan replied a splash of milk and one spoon of sugar, Chrissie cooed. As if only a man of taste, wit and intelligence would drink his tea in such a way. Sophie took all this in and thought she might weep. It was lonely being in pain observing two people who were approaching old age playing at being sixteen. She wanted them both to go home.
She stood and announced that she was going for a walk, hoping her guests would take this as a hint to leave. But no, they decided to go with her. There was a bustle of coats being brought from the hallway, scarves being flapped, outdoor shoes being hauled on.
Sophie led the way to the front door, walking slowly, clutching the stair banister, a woman in pain. But too proud to let it show. Chrissie and Duncan followed. He was coughing from having hurriedly swigged his tea and its going down the wrong way.
This was Sophie’s walk. She was in charge. She led for the first two or three hundred yards, pushing into the day, grimacing against the wind, fearing it might rain. The other two struggled to keep up. But when they got into their stride they walked at Sophie’s pace. The three were abreast for a while, chatting about glorious cakes from their past. Then it became obvious that Sophie was out of breath and working hard at maintaining her set pace. She slowed up. Duncan and Chrissie slowed, too. But found this new snail’s pace harder than the fierce stride and, without wanting to, moved ahead. Now Sophie was behind. She trailed the other two, listening to their laughter, watching them flirt, and felt forgotten and lonely.
She ached. Hugged herself, keeping the pain warm. She breathed heavily and stepped carefully watching her feet. She was afraid of falling. The loneliness deepened as her friends widened the gap, walking faster, enjoying the sea air. Chrissie linked arms with Duncan and leaned into him. Bitch, thought Sophie. A ripple of anger flashed through her. How dare they behave like that? This was her walk, her idea to come outside into the fresh air. If it hadn’t been for her the two striding away from her would still be flirting in the kitchen. At least now they were flirting in a healthier environment.
She stood, breathing in the scents and sounds of the day; the tang of sea air, gulls laughing, a dog barking, children calling. A whole world of things going on and she was alone. And she was sick of it. She was furious with everything, everyone. She’d been alone too long. Cheek of Martin dying like that. Cheek of Chrissie and Duncan marching ahead not looking back. Cheek of people on the beach shouting and laughing and having fun when she was in pain. ‘Bastards bastards bastards,’ she said. She turned, stomped back home, clutching her coat round her. She heard Chrissie and Duncan call after her. No, she would not acknowledge them.
She marched into John Street, up the path to her door, slammed it behind her and locked it. To hell with them.
40
Mrs Simpson Who Isn’t Mrs Simpson
Martha thought it was time to let the Stokes case go. ‘Just send the bill and let’s get on with other things.’
Charlie disagreed. ‘I want to know what’s going on. I need to know how it ends.’
‘We found Brendan because he wasn’t really missing in the first place.’
‘We didn’t know that when we were looking. I found Chrissie, didn’t I?’
‘I’ll give you that. However, we won’t make any money from that case as you haven’t told the man who was looking for her that she’s been found and therefore can’t bill him.’
They were sitting in the car outside the house they’d spied on some weeks ago. They’d come to see Mrs Simpson, the woman they’d started with. They were arguing. The windows were getting steamed. Martha didn’t want to be here. Charlie did. Martha was embarrassed by the memory of being shown round a house they had no interest in buying. ‘We took advantage of that woman.’
Charlie shrugged and said, ‘She was glad of the company. She invited us in.’
‘It was a sad, lonely, empty house. Not a home. Pale gaps on the walls where pictures once hung. And a teenager’s purple bedroom with no teenager. I hated being in there.’
‘Can’t say I enjoyed it much. But that’s part of the job. We have to do things we don’t like in pursuit of the truth.’ He opened the car door and climbed out. Leaning down to continue the conversation with Martha, who was still sitting in the driver’s seat, he said, ‘Someone is taking the piss out of me, using me, and I want to know why.’
Martha got out of the car, leaned on the roof to answer him. ‘It’s because you’re there to be taken the piss out of. That’s all. People do things like that.’ She had been going to say it was because he was a crap detective, but stopped herself. It was a bit cruel and not entirely true.
Charlie slammed the car door and set off along the pavement. Martha followed. ‘Charlie, this isn’t necessary. Let’s bill Bernice and look for new clients. You haven’t made any money since I came to work for you. Not good.’
‘Money? There’s more to life than that.’
‘You might think so. I don’t. I’m fond of paying my bills so I can have heat and light. And I’m rather partial to eating, too.’
‘Don’t worry about it. You’ll have food on your plate and light to see what it is.’ He swung through the gate and down the path and pressed the doorbell. ‘I’m going to get to the bottom of this.’
‘Are you wagging your finger at me?’
He looked in surprise at the offending digit. ‘Only because you’re standing where the finger is pointing. It isn’t deliberate.’ He shoved his hand into his pocket. Turned to speak to the woman who opened the door. And dried. Couldn’t think what to say. ‘Um, Mrs Simpson?’
She said, ‘Yes.’
She was smaller than she’d seemed from the window of the house across the road. Her face was pale, free of make-up. It was a face used to revealing emotions, and it seemed there had been a lot of emotion.
Charlie looked helpless. His mind was suddenly and embarrassingly empty. And the longer he searched for something to say, the emptier his mind became.
Martha took over. She held out her hand for Mrs Simpson to shake. ‘We’re from the Be Kindly Missing Persons Bureau. We wondered if we could talk to you about your husband.’
‘Oh, Bernice said you might call. You better come in, then.’ Mrs Simpson stepped back to open the door wider and let the two in. ‘Excuse the mess,’ she said as she led them down the hall to the living room. ‘I haven’t cleaned up today.’ She sniffed. ‘But then I don’t clean up any day ever.’
The room was large, light and neglected. The floor was strewn with toys, shoes and discarded items of clothing. A small plastic bean-stained plate lay on the floor by the sofa. It was very familiar to Martha. A distant life came to her – Martha Walters, the sticky years. It had been a time of endless wiping and long conversations about lollipops, lorries, princesses and an invisible friend called Lola. A time of watchfulness, guilt, loneliness and fun. Remembering all that, her heart went out to Mrs Simpson.
She watched Charlie pick up a small toy car and turn it over admiring it. ‘I always wanted one of these,’ he said.
‘A Jaguar?’ asked Mrs Simpson.
‘Just the toy.’ He ran the car along the arm of the sofa. A smile to Mrs Simpson, sharing this small pleasure, was not appreciated.
‘You want to talk about Bill,’ she said.
Martha said, ‘Yes. Your husband.’
‘He’s not my husband. We’re not married. I just took his name to look respectable to the neighbours. You know how
people are.’
Martha nodded. ‘Indeed I do.’
Charlie reluctantly put the toy car back on the floor and said, ‘Bernice Stokes asked us to find out what Bill was up to. She calls him Brendan. She thought he’d gone missing.’
‘I know,’ said Mrs Simpson who was not Mrs Simpson. ‘She told me. Until she got in touch I thought Brendan was Bill.’
Martha said, ‘What else did she tell you?’
‘Pretty much everything. You two spied on me from the house across the road. You followed Bill to the flat in Heriot Row where his lady love Lucy stays. You,’ she pointed to Charlie, ‘waited outside Lucy’s house and when Bill came out you followed him until he caught up with you and, well, beat you up.’
Charlie agreed. ‘Indeed he did.’
‘You,’ Mrs Simpson who was not Mrs Simpson nodded at Martha, ‘followed Bill from Jelly’s to Morningside and watched Sheila go into her house.’
‘In her red coat,’ said Martha.
‘Did she have that on? I like that coat,’ said Mrs Simpson.
Martha agreed, ‘It’s a lovely coat. Great cut.’
Charlie said, ‘We came to talk about Brendan or Bill. Does he live here with you all the time?’
‘No. In fact I’ve hardly seen him since the day you two came hurtling out of the house across the road and took off in your car following him.’
Charlie said, ‘Oh, did you see us?’
‘Everybody saw you. The whole neighbourhood. You don’t often see people running about making fools of themselves round here. We had a laugh.’
‘I’m glad we amused you.’ Charlie shrugged. ‘So you haven’t seen him recently.’
‘No. But don’t worry, we’ve got him sorted.’
‘Sorted?’
‘He’ll get what’s coming to him.’
‘You’re not going to have him beaten up?’
‘Of course not. Don’t be ridiculous. We’re going to hit him where it hurts most. The wallet.’ Mrs Simpson who was not Mrs Simpson indicated the door with a swift wave of her hand. ‘Our Brendan or Bill is wealthy. But not for long.’ She hustled the pair out of the room, up the hall and out the front door.
Back in the car Charlie said, ‘What was that about?’
‘We got thrown out,’ said Martha. ‘I’m guessing she didn’t like you playing with the toys.’
‘I can’t resist.’
‘I know, you’re making up for an impoverished childhood.’ She started the car. ‘Come to think of it, we were all abandoned. Mrs Simpson who isn’t Mrs Simpson abandoned by Bill or Brendan. Me by Jamie who ran away from me. God, even the woman across the road has been abandoned to live alone in a house with patched walls where pictures once hung and a purple bedroom. Do you think Bernice or the woman in the red coat feel abandoned?’
‘Well, I don’t think Bernice does, but perhaps the woman in the red coat. Why did you mention her to Bernice?’
‘I didn’t. I thought you did.’
‘Why would I mention that my assistant had followed the wrong taxi?’
‘Why indeed?’ said Martha. ‘But it is now evident that I didn’t follow the wrong taxi.’
‘How do they know you followed the taxi?’ Charlie wondered.
‘Maybe Brendan spotted me. Then again, maybe someone is following us.’
‘You mean all the time?’ He turned and looked out the rear window.
‘Perhaps. How did anyone know I was following the taxi? I was in my mother’s Beetle. Not your car, which Bernice or Brendan might have recognised. Someone must have followed me home. We’re being watched.’
‘When Brendan punched me these women might have been watching.’ He placed his palm on his stomach. ‘It makes me queasy. I hate that thought. Why would they do that?’
‘To find out if we’re doing a proper job. To find out what we are finding out before we tell them, so they don’t have to pay the bill. I don’t know. We should go and chat to these other women straight away.’
‘Yes. We should. Only not straight away. I want to go somewhere quiet to sit and eat and drink a glass of wine, maybe two. Mostly I want to think.’
‘You’re procrastinating, Charlie.’
‘It’s one thing I’m very good at. I enjoy it. It gives me a feeling of being removed from the world while considering my options. So, you can go and talk to some woman who might or might not be called what we think she’s called. Me, I’m going for a plate of pasta and a glass of wine.’
‘Are you paying?’
‘Yes.’
‘Well, I’ll join you. Though I shouldn’t.’
They sat at a table for two in the corner of Charlie’s favourite Italian restaurant. He ordered spaghetti arrabiata, saying they didn’t want anything creamy when they were a little bit shocked and plotting their next step. ‘And we’ll have Chianti to go with it. A reliable wine. We need reliable at the moment.’
He took his notebook from his jacket pocket and laid it on the table, placed his pen neatly next to it. ‘We need to make a list.’
‘Of course we do,’ said Martha.
Bernice/Brendan Stokes, Charlie headed the page. ‘Right.’
Bernice comes to the office. Wants us to find Brendan. Mentions pub.
We go to pub. Find Brendan is also known as Bill Simpson, screw up. Don’t get change after paying for drinks. Get chased out. Carbonara.
We go to address for Bill Simpson. Check up from house across the road. Follow Bill/Brendan. He knows we’re there.
He shut the book. Drummed his fingers on the cover. ‘I’m a fool.’
‘Why do you say that?’
‘Look at this list. Three items. Two balls-ups. I’m an arse.’ The wine arrived. He refused the offer of a trial taste, took the bottle, filled his glass and swigged deeply. ‘I just went plunging ahead doing stuff. That’s not me. I stop. I think. I muse. I ponder. I mull.’
‘You procrastinate.’
‘I move forward with caution. I never barge. What was I thinking?’ He refilled their glasses. Cursed himself because he knew what he’d been thinking. He’d wanted to impress her. His falling for her had clouded his judgement. Oh, he hadn’t fully realised this till he’d seen her standing alone, pale and fearless, yelling at a crowd of barely sober men in a gay pub. That was when he knew he truly loved her. Everything before that had been a prelude, the overture, the beginnings of it all. But her passion had taken his breath away.
‘I find people, that’s all. I always thought I was quite good at it. Not excellent, just quite good. I who found I had no identity discovered I could slip into other people’s lives and understand them. I am a gifted listener. Sometimes I’d persuade people to come home. Sometimes not.’
Martha smiled at this. ‘Sometimes you took them home with you.’
‘It’s hard sleeping when you know someone you’ve spoken to recently is out there in the rain and cold. But this thing now isn’t like anything I’ve done before. I’m getting the feeling I’m the one being watched. I can’t figure it out. I must have pissed someone off.’
‘You have an enemy?’
Charlie took another swig of wine. ‘I don’t have enemies.’ He considered this statement and added, ‘But then I don’t have friends either.’
Martha hated to admit the pasta was exactly the right dish for the moment. She pointed to it with her fork and nodded. ‘Good.’
He nodded back. ‘Good. Spicy, filling, tasty, comforting. Perfect for a man getting a talking to from his conscience as he lives through a moment of failure.’
41
A Spoon Situation
Sophie had abandoned the walk she’d been taking with Duncan and Chrissie to go home, lock the door and sulk. She’d heard the forsaken two come up the path; their voices drifting up sounded bemused and concerned. They rang the bell, knocked, shouted through the letterbox. Sophie ignored them. She sat, mug of tea clasped in cupped hands, feeling righteous and alone. When the knocking, ringing and yelling didn’t stop, she wen
t to the front door, opened the letterbox and firmly said, ‘Go away.’
Next morning Chrissie came to help. Cheery as always, she baked a cake that Sophie found annoyingly excellent. Neither of them mentioned the doings of the previous afternoon.
Duncan stayed away. Sophie heard nothing from him and cursed herself. She missed him. He’s an idiot, she thought, but a nice idiot.
She decided she’d like to go back to Jelly’s with him. She now considered it a fun place, noisy, energetic, with excellent food. She could invite Duncan to join her in a glass or three of wine as they enjoyed the dish of the day. A friendship thing, she’d say. Why not? Women did that sort of thing these days. Yes, she’d do that as soon as she’d sorted out the spoon situation.
In the time Chrissie had been helping with the cake orders quite a lot of cutlery had gone missing. It wasn’t just spoons of course – two packs of cheddar cheese, a pair of shoes, a necklace (cheap but beloved), a Frank Sinatra LP, a vegetable knife, a silver ladle and a pair of canvas shoes were also missing. In fact it had taken Sophie a while to realise that the items had been removed from the house. The spoons were from a cutlery set she kept for special visitors and rarely used. The LP was scratched and never played. The shoes were hardly ever worn. The necklace lived in a kitchen drawer along with a couple of clothes pegs, a ball of string and two ballpoint pens. The cheese was missed, but Sophie assumed Martha had taken a craving, had a cheese fest and ate it. Though two packs seemed excessive.
The truth had slowly dawned when a silver tray that sat on a chest of drawers at the top of the stairs disappeared. For years Sophie and Martha had dumped their keys and small change on that tray when they came home. It was so much part of the household nobody noticed it. And it was a couple of days before Sophie became aware of its absence. She stood staring at the space it had occupied, wondering what had changed about the top of the chest of drawers. ‘Tray,’ she said at last, ‘where’s the tray?’ In the living room she asked Martha if she’d seen it. ‘Did you take it to polish it?’ This rarely happened. Martha shook her head. ‘No.’ Together they went to stare at the vacant space and speculate.