Still Waters (30 page)

Spurgeon removed his glasses and rubbed them against his trouser leg.

“Sir?” Resnick asked again. “You're sure?”

“Yes.”

“She used to be called Harker. Jane Harker.”

“Oh. Oh, yes.” Spurgeon took a step back, fumbling his glasses back onto his face. “Louise, it's Jane, you remember …”

“Yes, I know who she is.” Louise turned abruptly and went back into the house.

“Louise, please …” Shaking his head, Spurgeon gave an apologetic smile. “I'm sorry.”

“You did know her, then, Mr. Spurgeon?” Resnick persevered. “Jane Harker? Peterson as she became.”

“Yes. Yes, of course. But a long time ago.”

“And you haven't kept in touch?”

“No. No, not at all.”

“In which case,” Resnick said, “likely you wouldn't have heard?”

“Heard what?”

“I'm afraid she died, sir.”

“Jane … Oh, my God, how …”

“She was murdered.”

A shiver ran through Spurgeon's body; his face was the color of fine ash.

“I'm sorry to have to be the one to break the news,” Resnick said.

Spurgeon removed his glasses, put them back into place. “Tell me what happened. Please.”

Levelly, evenly, not goading him, Resnick told him the facts. Tears fidgeted in the corners of Spurgeon's eyes, his hands knotted and pressed against his thighs. Then, silently at first, he began to cry. After several moments, Resnick touched Spurgeon gently on the arm and led him inside the house.

His wife was sitting at a plain kitchen table, still crowded with breakfast things, cold anger the only expression on her face.

“She's dead,” Spurgeon said, voice cracking. “Jane's dead.”

Louise tilted up her head. “Good,” she said. “Not before time.”

Some minutes later, Louise Spurgeon reappeared in the kitchen with her suit jacket and makeup in place. Switching on the ready-loaded washing machine as she passed, she lifted her car keys down from the hook alongside the door and stepped briskly out without uttering another word.

Her husband leaned against the table, then sat, head pitched forward into his hands, alternately sobbing and reaching for breath. Khan fetched a length of kitchen roll and placed it near at hand, where it stayed unused. Resnick waited until the edgy sound of the Fiesta's engine had faded before touching Peter Spurgeon lightly on the shoulder. “Perhaps there's another room where we can sit quietly, have a chat?”

Unsteadily, Spurgeon got to his feet, wiping his face with his sleeve. “We can go through here.”

Following him, Resnick turned his head. “Tea?” he said to Lynn.

“Tea, Anil,” Lynn said, once they were alone. “I'm going to take the chance for a quick look round.”

The room Spurgeon led Resnick into overlooked a muddled garden in which swings and a climbing frame rose above some rather desultory rose bushes, a lawn that was threadbare in patches, overgrown in others, and cabbages that had gone to seed. A fruit tree, pear, Resnick thought, though he could never be sure, straggled up alongside the far wall. A pair of child's trainers sat in the center of the room, stray items of clothing vied for space with comics and magazines. A small computer was set up on a table near the window, the cursor rhythmically blinking its green eye.

“I'm sorry,” Spurgeon said, “about the mess.”

Resnick negotiated space on an old Parker Knoll armchair, bought secondhand or someone's hand-me-down. How seriously had they suffered financially when Spurgeon's publishing venture had gone bust, he wondered, and were they still suffering from that? Financially and perhaps in other ways. Was this simply the house of two busy people with three children, never time to keep up? Or was this what it was like when things had unraveled beyond the point of care?

Spurgeon pushed a pile of publishers' catalogs to one side and slumped onto a sagging two-seater settee. Resnick waited until he had looked at him and looked away, looked at him and then away.

Resnick wondered if Spurgeon could hear as well as he could those footsteps he assumed were Khan's or Lynn's upon the upstairs boards? No, Resnick almost allowed himself a smile, they would be Lynn's; she would have been sure to have told Khan to make the tea.

And, yes, when the tea arrived, along with milk and sugar on an improvised tray, it was Khan who handed it round and, catching Resnick's eye to see if he should go or stay, carried his own mug to the side of the room and sat on a straight-backed chair near the door.

“I … I don't know,” Spurgeon said at last, “what it is you want me to say.”

“The truth,” Resnick replied.

“But about what?”

“Everything.”

Spurgeon tasted his tea, stirred in more sugar, left it alone.

“Mr. Spurgeon …”

“I've told you the truth.”

“About Jane? You didn't know what had happened to her?”

“Of course not.”

“And you haven't seen her in a long time?”

Spurgeon shook his head.

“How long? Fifteen years? Ten?”

“Ten, something like that. Ten. I can't remember exactly.”

“What happened,” Resnick asked, “for you to stop seeing her?”

“I suppose we just drifted apart, you know how it is. And then, of course, I married Louise.”

“Your wife knew her, then?”

“No. They never met.”

“Strange then,” Resnick said mildly, “that she should react the way she did.”

For an instant, Spurgeon closed his eyes. “Louise used to say I talked about Jane all the time. She said I made comparisons, between the two of them. It preyed on her mind. I suppose that's why, when she heard what had happened …”

Leaning forward, Resnick set his mug of tea aside. “There was no other reason for your wife to be jealous in this way?”

“I told you, I haven't seen Jane …”

“In ten years.”

“That's right.”

“Nor spoken to her.”

“No.”

“Mr. Spurgeon,” Resnick raised his voice a touch, shifting his weight back in the chair, “don't you think it's time we stopped all this?”

When Spurgeon spoke again, his voice was so quiet that both Resnick and Khan had to strain to hear. “When I first met Louise, I was still getting over Jane. I don't think I even realized it at the time, but it was true. First love, I suppose that's what you'd say. But I hadn't kept in touch with her at all, didn't know where she was, I never expected to as much as hear from her again. And then a couple of months after the wedding a card came. From Jane. I don't know how she'd found out, but she had, and she sent this card, wishing me good luck. Congratulations. Of course, I should have shown it to Louise straight away, but I didn't. Perhaps there was some kind of guilt, embarrassment, whatever.” Spurgeon was twisting his wedding ring round and round on his hand. “It's so easy to get caught up in a lie.” He looked Resnick in the eye. “Louise found the card, almost a year later; I hadn't thrown it away. She … the way she behaved was out of all proportion. And she hasn't forgotten. Not even now.”

“Tell me,” Resnick said, “what was written on the card.”

Spurgeon looked away. “Congratulations and good luck, with all my fondest love, Jane.” He hesitated. “Then underneath she'd written, I wish it was me.”

“You didn't reply?” Resnick asked.

Spurgeon shook his head. “I'd made my bed. And besides, there was no return address.”

“Until later.”

“I'm sorry?”

“Jane's address, you found out later what it was.”

“What are you saying?”

“What I'm saying, Mr. Spurgeon, is that if you hadn't got back in contact with Jane Peterson in some way, she would never have phoned you at the Dray Horse on the Newmarket Road, just ten minutes' drive from here, on the day that she disappeared. Exactly one week before she was found dead.”

Forty-three

Faron had scarcely spoken on the way over. Stripped of its makeup, the face that looked out through the mini-cab window seemed even younger than its nineteen years. Hoxton, Haggerston, Hackney, Bethnal Green, London Fields: all of her ambition was in moving away from this, not driving back.

For Grabianski it was alien. The moment he passed—where?—Highbury Corner? Stamford Hill?—the minute he crossed that indefinable boundary between North and East, he felt himself slipping into a world he didn't know and if not feared, was at least wary of. Discounted shoes and rebuilt cycles, fashion watches and made-to-measure suits, Lycra in forty-five styles a snip at £14.95 a meter, chopped herring, cheap curries, salt-beef bagels, dry salted fish, pigs' trotters, pigs' tails in a bag for 99p. There ought to be a wall, Grabianski thought; probably there was.

The driver turned and spoke over his shoulder and Faron answered him. Not far now.

Grabianski had read somewhere, probably around the time of the Whitechapel Open, there were more artists living in this part of London than in the rest of the city stacked together. Studios in houses, old bakeries, breweries that had folded too soon for the boom; studios in arches underneath the railway lines that still crisscrossed from Stratford and Bromley-by-Bow to Willesden Junction and Kensal Green. Sloane had been here before most of these, not his natural home either, south of the river that, but here was where he had produced his first serious paintings after art school, here was where, if the years in the States were forgotten—as largely they were—he had stayed.

The cab pulled up outside a row of tall, flat-fronted buildings with broad stone steps worn smooth at the center with use and age.

Grabianski told the driver to wait and followed Faron out onto the wide pavement. A collarless dog that had been sniffing at the dustbins stacked inside the low wall came and sniffed at them instead. Absently, Faron petted its head.

“Which one?” Grabianski asked.

She pointed. “The end.”

There were steps down to the basement, steps going up. Bins aside, the space at the front sported the plastic and paper debris of casual passersby, an old chimney stack someone had filled with earth but in which nothing apparent grew, some bottles and a can or two.

Reaching up, Faron rang the bell. After a while they heard music and then footsteps, fast and heavy, on the stairs. Sloane shot back the bolt and threw open the door, staring out. He was wearing the same dungarees Grabianski had seen him in before, the same interrogation in those strong blue eyes.

“What the fuck d'you bring him for?” Sloane asked.

Carefully, Faron unfurled her eyes. “He asked me,” she said.

Sloane sniffed and wiped a hand across his face. To Grabianski he said, “Now you're here, I guess you better come inside.”

The last sound Grabianski heard before Sloane slammed the door shut was the clunk of Faron's heels along the pavement, the closing of the cab door.

At some stage, the entire top floor had been laid bare, stripped back to plaster and board, beyond plaster to the rough brick. Paint was speckled and smeared across the floor and the farthest wall. Metal shelves held a massed assemblage of brushes, palette-knives, and paints, sheaves of paper spilling from brown, loose-tied folders, books illustrating other artists' work, catalogs, a collection of LPs with covers that were bent and torn. Raised off the floor by bricks at either end of the room, two four-foot speakers splayed out a raucous, arrhythmic sound that Grabianski thought might be some kind of abstract jazz, but like nothing he had heard before.

Canvases in various sizes leaned against one another haphazardly around the walls; propped on an easel near the far window, half-finished, was an oil Grabianski recognized as being in the style of William Stott of Oldham. Grabianski had stolen one once, a small seascape, from a private collector in Leeds.

Towering over all this, constantly claiming Grabianski's eye, was a single huge canvas, wider and taller than the span of two men's arms, which had been stretched and tied within a free-standing wooden frame. Fervid and loud, the paint lay thick in sheets of color, vermilion and magenta overlaid with crystal blue. Closer to, you could see where earlier attempts had been scraped back and covered over, scraped and covered, punched and gouged and pummeled closer to the painter's vision.

“What?” Sloane yelled across the noise.

Grabianski didn't take his eyes from the canvas. “It's yours.”

“Course it's fuckin' mine!”

“I mean it's not a copy.”

“I know what you mean.”

“It's amazing.”

“It's crap.”

Like the surface of water breaking, music stopped. Sloane moved closer to his canvas, then away.

“What's wrong with it?” Grabianski asked.

“What's wrong,” Sloane said, “is it's no longer nineteen-fucking-fifty-nine. Now why don't you tell me what you're here for, so's I can get on?”

When Grabianski had told him, Sloane ambled to the window and gazed out. “Why,” he said, moving to the record deck, “should I want to get so far up Eddie Snow's nose?”

Grabianski shrugged. “The fun of it? The challenge?”

Sloane looked at him. “The money?”

“That, too.”

Sloane lowered the pickup arm and the cacophonous sound of the Art Ensemble of Chicago refilled the room.

Forty-four

“You won't have any objection, sir, to our taking a quick photograph?”

Resnick had informed Colin Presley, the senior local CID officer, of his impending visit, and now a second call to Cambridge HQ secured an interview room with tape facilities, car parking, use of the canteen. Lynn's brief stroll around the premises on Front Street had yielded nothing aside from the fact that the Spurgeons' life would be easier—and tidier—with the services of a good housekeeper or au pair. Even kids who picked up after themselves would help. Now Khan had been sent off to the Dray Horse with a Polaroid of Peter Spurgeon, seeking confirmation that this was the man who consistently called there and from time to time made use of their telephone.