The Water Room (16 page)

‘Then I’ll give it to you,’ she promised, ushering him in. ‘I was only going to wash my hair because there’s nothing on TV. I’ll make us some tea.’

He seated himself awkwardly on one of the mismatched kitchen stools and looked around. ‘It’s coming along nicely in here.’

‘Thanks. I’m doing it by myself—Paul’s hopeless with DIY.’

‘You should get Elliot in from number 3. He’s good as long as you keep him off the booze. He painted and rewired our place, and now he’s laying the front yard for the builders’ merchant at the end of the street. You know, the piece of waste ground old Garrett was trying to get his hands on? It’s going to be a car park.’

‘I don’t think Mr Copeland is interested in the job. I’d like to take a couple of walls out and stop the rooms looking quite so Victorian.’

‘Yeah, Paul told me your plans.’

‘Did he?’
I wish he’d tell me,
she thought. ‘You two had a bit of a boozing session the other night.’

‘Yeah, we got a bit pissed. Sorry about that.’ He didn’t sound contrite. ‘I realize now that I don’t talk often enough to my neighbours. We all work so hard that we’ve no time left for social niceties when we get home. I mean, I give money in the street to professional charities I’ve never even heard of, and yet I’m too tired to bother with the people who live next door. That’s not right, is it? Paul told me how you two met. It sounded kind of romantic.’

‘Paul has a way of sexing up every story. You have to take him with a pinch of salt.’

They had spent twenty minutes together inside a ghost-train car that had broken down in Blackheath funfair. She had been sitting with her girlfriend Daniella, debating whether to leave the car and risk walking through the cuprous gloom, when Paul had loomed out from a graveyard tableau and made them both scream. The happiness of that memory had been undermined by the fact that Daniella had died a month later, hit by a delivery van while riding her bike home late one night. No one had ever traced the driver. You could fill every square of the city’s map grid with the stains of hidden tragedies.

‘What did you guys find to talk about for so long?’

‘Oh, you know, men in pubs can stretch any subject until closing time.’ Jake accepted the tea.
Unusual to meet a gay man who’s overweight,
she thought idly.
Pleasant face, obviously comfortable dealing with people in his job.

‘It’s just that Paul mentioned something about hang-gliding.’

‘Oh,
that
. It was nothing. I told him that Aaron and I had been hang-gliding in France, and he suggested coming along with us some time.’

‘How long have you two been together?’

‘Eleven years, believe it or not.’

‘That’s longer than most of my friends.’

‘We have a deal. I told him if he ever leaves me I’ll kill him, which pretty much sorted the whole thing out.’

‘So,’ she tried to sound casual, ‘what was the part about making some money?’

‘Oh, nothing really, not even first-hand information, just something I’d been told.’ He suddenly looked like a small boy who had been caught stealing sweets. ‘I wouldn’t demean either of us by recounting another half-drunk conversation. But I did offer to lend him some money. He told me you were a bit strapped for cash right now.’

She bridled at the idea that her finances had been discussed with a virtual stranger. ‘We’ll be fine. It’s just that there’s a lot to do here. The electrics, the plumbing, the basement needs to be damp-proofed and replastered, the roof needs repairing. And I don’t know how long I can live with this seventies wallpaper.’ She indicated the mauve paisley print behind them.

‘I can see what you mean. It’s unfashionable without being fabulous.’

‘Do you have any problems with water?’

‘What kind of problems?’

‘Surges in the plumbing.’

‘No, but I’ve got rising damp. I think we’re still Victorians at heart. We spend so much time trying to keep the rain out, but it always finds a way of getting in.’ Jake drained his cup and rose to leave. ‘Look, I have to get back. There’s something I need to do.’ He seemed undecided about explaining himself, but gave in after a brief moment of hesitation. ‘It’s about Ruth Singh. When the police came and did the interviews, I told a bit of a lie. I didn’t want to get anyone into trouble, but it’s started to bother me.’

‘What did you tell them?’ asked Kallie.

‘It was about Ruth’s visitor, the night before she died. I stopped to dig out my keys and saw someone ring the doorbell to number
5
. Ruth definitely recognized her visitor, but I couldn’t hear what they were saying. I told the constable I didn’t know who it was. But there was this hat and a long black leather raincoat, not the kind of outfit you’d miss. At work I’m used to checking wardrobe continuity all the time, so I notice these things. Then I saw the coat lying in one of the bedrooms at Oliver and Tamsin’s party.’

‘You mean it belonged to Oliver?’

‘No, to one of the guests.’ He looked pained. ‘It doesn’t mean they know anything about Ruth’s death, does it?’

‘Who are we talking about?’

‘Well—Mark Garrett. The coat was odd, not the sort of thing I’d imagine him wearing, and the sleeves were empty. It looked as if it had been draped over the shoulders, you know, so you could run out into the rain.’

‘How do you know it was Garrett’s?’

‘Because I was so surprised to see it in the Wiltons’ bedroom that I checked the label. His name was sewn inside the collar—who sews their name inside their clothes any more? I suppose there could be more than one coat like that, but there was something very odd about the length of it, and the one in the bedroom was identical. I reckon the police have a right to know, even if I’m proven wrong.’

‘It’ll make you feel better to tell someone,’ she replied, thinking,
Oh my God, Garrett was desperate to buy the house, and he went to see the owner the night before she died.

When Longbright called on him the next day, Garrett complained indignantly, balancing in the doorway like a man interrupted during the football results. ‘I don’t know what you’re talking about. I haven’t been running around with a raincoat over me. What are you implying?’

‘Perhaps you borrowed it from your girlfriend,’ the detective sergeant suggested, ‘to put the rubbish out or something. It was raining hard. Maybe you’ve forgotten—’

‘I’m not bloody stupid, woman. I run a very successful business—I didn’t get that way by suffering mental lapses. I know where I’ve been, and I didn’t visit Mrs Singh before she died, not for any bloody reason.’

‘Then perhaps you could have a look in your girlfriend’s wardrobe for us. Maybe she’s put the coat in there by mistake.’

‘And maybe someone wants me to take the blame for the old cow’s death.’ Garrett’s face reddened as he raised his voice, hoping somehow that the neighbours would hear. ‘People should learn to mind their own bloody business in this street. Tell me, why should I even care who she was? These damned people—Indian, Chinese, African—the liberals tell us we have to be one big community, we have to integrate, but why the hell should I? What do they do for me? Absolutely bugger all. I am English and this is my home, and it’s nothing to do with any other bastard.’

One of them is either mistaken or lying,
thought Longbright, turning away as the door was slammed in her face. She couldn’t insist on searching the house without first applying for a warrant, and knew that one was unlikely to be granted. No one remembered seeing Garrett at the party with the coat, so it was Avery’s word against the estate agent’s, and because people knew they disliked each other, it could be argued that Avery was trying to make trouble for Garrett.
There’s nothing that anyone can do about it now. Let’s hope Arthur finds something more constructive to do with his time.

She turned up her collar and began walking toward the Tube station. She adored working for the detectives, just as her mother had done before her. They had been there for her in the most difficult circumstances, but it was time to face the fact that they were getting old. She knew it was only work that kept them both from dotage, but if Raymond Land failed to get the unit assigned to high-profile cases, it would be closed down, and that would be the end of them all.

Something will turn up soon,
she thought, peering up into the scudding black world above the high-street rooftops.
Something has to.

17

INFIDELITIES

She would always remember how strangely the day had begun.

A Krakatoa dawn, intense and viridescent, had been obliterated by dim silhouettes of cloud, great grey cargo ships bearing fresh supplies of rain. By noon it had grown so dark that she had been forced to switch on the hall lights, and, not knowing what to do for the best, waited for the call.

She had known it would be George before the second ring. They had established the pattern of communication whenever he travelled, to fit around the time differences. If he was further west, he never rang before one. Further east, and he would call just as she was having breakfast. He never grew tired of waiting in airport lounges or dining late in half-empty hotels. He seemed to have deliberately chosen work that would deny him the comforts of home life. He was meeting factory representatives in company branches around the world, but she often wondered if he could have delegated these tasks and requested an administrative position in London. Perhaps, like Kallie’s partner, it was something to do with never having taken a gap year; perhaps he too imagined that beneath the jacket and tie he was a backpacker, free to watch dawn from mountaintops and follow the contours of the shorelines. Except that his journeys took him to places no student would choose to visit. And on that day the call came at the wrong time, the pattern disrupted. He was only in Paris—no distance at all—but something was wrong.

According to the readout on her receiver, he stayed on the line for no longer than four minutes. Barely time to boil an egg; certainly not long enough to discuss a divorce. She had been half-expecting him to raise the subject for almost a year. When she added up the days they had spent together, the total came to little more than three months in twelve, but it was still a bitter shock. He recited the guilty man’s litany:
It’s me, not you . . . You’ve done nothing wrong . . . I need to rethink my life . . . I’m holding you back . . . I can’t expect you to wait for me.
But it rang so false that she knew there was someone else involved, that there would be a younger version of herself, probably living in Paris, where so many trips had taken him lately. He wouldn’t rethink his life, merely repeat it with someone more naive. She resented the fact that he had reached the decision without her involvement.
Let someone else deal with his intermittent sex drive now,
she thought.
Let someone else feel the weight of his damp flesh on top of her. I hope it’s worth it.

From an early age, Heather had worked hard to have the life presented in style magazines; but it hadn’t turned out like that. She had hated the kind of women who hung out at sports events with an agenda for searching out the right class of man, yet she had done exactly the same, attending fixtures in the season’s calendar, frequenting the fashionable Kensington restaurants and bars until meeting George. Her desire to establish such a specific lifestyle had separated her from Kallie, whose honesty and simplicity were quite uncalculating.

He had promised her the London house; he would sign it over tomorrow, but there would be nothing else. She was sure he would move his base of operations to Paris and live with his younger-Heather clone, this year’s more desirable model. Heather would join the ranks of embittered divorcees who prowled the cafés of the King’s Road, sipping their lattes and stalking certain designer stores because the staff were cute, dining with women in similar situations, discussing shoes and spas and drinking a little too much wine over lunch. And the worst part about being cast into this tastefully appointed limbo was that she only had herself to blame. She had made a single, humiliating mistake that would taunt her for the rest of her life.

‘Come through to the studio. It’s better that you’re here while my husband’s still out. You look absurdly well.’

Monica Greenwood led the way through the cramped apartment occupying the top half of the house in Belsize Park. Every spare inch of space had been filled with books and canvases. When shelves had overflowed, paperbacks had been stacked in precarious piles along the already narrow hallway, beside jam jars of turpentine and linseed oil. Monica looked much as he’d remembered. Although her hair was now more studiedly blond, it was still carelessly tied back, kept from her face while she worked on her paintings. Her figure was fuller, subject to the natural effects of a miraculous maturity. She looked sumptuous in jeans and an acrylic-stained sweatshirt, comfortable in this stage of her life. Too much time had passed for John May to remember if he had truly been in love with her, but he had certainly been bewitched at some point during the national miners’ strike.

She carried mugs of coffee into a narrow conservatory coated in peeling whitewash. ‘I’m glad to see you still paint,’ said May. ‘I’ve been looking out for exhibitions featuring your work.’

‘You won’t have found any,’ she warned, pulling the cloth from a large canvas. ‘I’m off the radar of popularity these days. I switched from figurative stuff to rather fierce abstracts; I think you often do as you mature and become interested in states of mind rather than accurate depictions of people and buildings.’

May examined the painting, an arrangement of curling cerulean lines that drifted to a dark horizon. ‘I like that. Is it sold?’

She blew an errant lock of hair from her eye. ‘Please don’t humour me, John. There have been no takers so far. I’ll let you have it if you can sort out this problem with Gareth. I’m glad you’re still in the force.’

‘That’s just it, I’m not really. The unit has been separated from the Met, but we still handle cases in the public domain.’

‘Whatever happened to that funny little man who was rude to everyone?’ she asked. ‘The one with the foul-smelling pipe?’

‘Arthur’s very well, touch wood,’ said May apologetically. ‘I’m still partnered with him.’

‘You two have lasted longer than most marriages. Doesn’t he drive you mad?’

‘I don’t know, I can’t tell any more. Do you still call yourself Mona?’

‘God no, nobody’s called me that in years. Gareth hates contractions. I had to become respectable in every way when I married an academic. All those formal dinners with elderly men. Tell them you paint and they look at you with condescension, another bored housewife looking for hobbies to fill the evenings while her husband is working on something important. I lost my husband to them after he made his mistake about that bloody statue, the Nereid. He needed to regain their respect, and they made a pact with him; they would allow him back into their exalted circle if he devoted all his time to their various causes. So Gareth behaved himself, joined the right committees and worked late every night, and we were grudgingly re-admitted.’

‘If things got back to normal, why do you think he’s in trouble again now?’

‘We’re short of money, of course. I’m not allowed to work, so we survive on his pitiful salary. But I think it’s more than that. This “client” has appealed to his vanity by insisting that no one but Gareth can work for him. He’s the best in the field, there’s nobody else who could handle the job, it’s the opportunity of a lifetime, a chance to make some real money, etcetera. You should see him when he comes off the phone, as excited as a schoolboy.’

‘What made you think he was planning something illegal?’

‘He won’t talk about what he’s been asked to do, and I know what he’s like. He thinks that if I find out, I’ll have a go at him for being so stupid.’ She lit a cigarette. ‘Do you still smoke?’

‘No, I gave up years ago—doctor’s orders.’

‘Any idea what he’s up to?’

‘I can tell you a little,’ May admitted. ‘He’s exploring the remains of London’s lost rivers. We’ve tracked him at the sites of three so far—the Fleet, the Effra and the Walbrook. He seems particularly interested in the point where their tunnels widen and open to the Thames.’

‘Why? I know it’s his area of expertise, but surely that sort of exploration is all above board.’

‘We checked out the most obvious reasons. I thought the various councils involved might have failed to grant access, but no requests to explore closed sections of the rivers have been received at all. Thames Water occasionally issues permits for non-professionals to enter the system with a team, but they’ve told us they know nothing about this. Besides, the recent rainfall has made conditions so hazardous that only experienced workers are entering for essential repairs. The rivers run through and under various parcels of private property, so we’ve made discreet inquiries with landlords and developers. But we’ve turned up nothing there, either. Which means that your husband is acting without permission, on behalf of a private client. He’s been photographed at all of these sites.’

‘You’re talking about breaking and entering, trespass at the very least. It’ll get back to the museum, these things always do. He’ll be thrown out again. Can’t you do something to stop him?’

‘Arthur wants to find out what he’s up to. The idea is to step in before he commits himself to anything serious, and hopefully avoid the trespass charge by getting something on his client.’

Monica ran a hand through her hair. ‘I can’t take much more of this life, John. I’m not very good at being a sidekick. I don’t want to just be supportive. I was seriously thinking of leaving him when this came along, like some kind of a test. I know it wasn’t fair to involve you, but I didn’t have anyone else to turn to. The academic wives don’t want anything to do with me, and my old friends have all moved on. I thought you might remember me fondly.’

May smiled. ‘You know how I felt about you.’

‘Then why did you let me go?’

‘What can I say?’ The subject embarrassed him even now. ‘They were the disco years. Nobody acted their age, nobody settled down.’

‘That’s the lamest excuse I ever heard.’ Her laugh was unchanged. ‘You were married when I met you. What happened?’

‘Oh, it was all a long time ago,’ said May evasively as he rose and examined the canvases.

‘So it didn’t last.’

‘No, Jane and I divorced. She was—there were health problems. She became ill. Not physically, you understand, just—’ He couldn’t bring himself to say it. He saw little point in resurrecting the past, at least not while the pain of those years remained.

‘You don’t have to tell me, John.’

‘That’s just the problem—I haven’t talked about it in a long while. I rarely discuss my marriage with Arthur because—well, he has very particular views on these things.’

‘You’re talking about mental illness, aren’t you?’

‘We didn’t know what we were dealing with back then.’

‘But you had children.’

‘Yes, two. Alex was born first, then Elizabeth came along four years later. Now there’s only Alex.’

Monica rose and came to his side, resting her hand lightly on his shoulder. ‘What happened to your daughter?’

He turned aside, barely able to voice his thoughts. ‘She died, and it was my fault. I was more ambitious in those days, perhaps too much so. Alex is married and lives in Canada now, but wants nothing to do with me. Elizabeth—she gave birth to a baby girl. April reminds me so much of her mother. She lives here in London, and will be fine one day soon, I’m sure. She still has problems, but we’re learning to overcome them.’

‘Poor John, you haven’t had the things you deserve.’

He tried to make light of it. ‘I don’t know, I suppose it’s still better to have raised a family than to be like Arthur, even if I eventually lost it.’

‘You never lost me,’ said Monica, raising her hands to his face.

‘You’re telling me you slept with her? Somebody from our own neighbourhood?’ Kayla Ayson yelled.

‘What the hell has that got to do with it?’ Randall shouted back. The front bedroom of number 39 was small, and Randall was sure that the neighbours could hear every word. ‘What does it matter anyway? It was two years before I met you.’

‘Then why wait until now to tell me? Wait a minute.’ Kayla raised a hand to her forehead. ‘You were the one who liked this house so much, even though I thought it was too small for the children. Did you do that just so you could be near her again? Are you still seeing her? Christ, she came to the Wiltons’ party. You call yourself a decent Christian but you still want her.’

‘Will you listen to yourself? Of course I don’t, I’m telling you because it’s bound to come out sooner or later. I didn’t even know she lived in this street until I saw her that evening. She came over and spoke to me when I went to get a drink in the kitchen. What could I do?’

‘You could have told her that you’re happily married.’

‘Of course I did that, but she’s the kind of woman—I just thought you should know.’

‘She’s probably told half the neighbourhood. How do you think that makes me feel, knowing that they’re laughing behind my back?’

‘I wanted to be honest with you,’ Randall pleaded. ‘I wish I hadn’t told you.’

‘Was she married? Did you commit the sin of adultery?’

‘No, she was single, working in a plant nursery in Camden. I was just as shocked to see her as she was me. And she won’t have told anyone, it would only cause more trouble.’

‘But you had to tell me. And now she lives with that awful estate agent in the house opposite. What a convenient coincidence.’

‘We had a few dates, Kayla, that’s all. Lauren means nothing to me. Do you think I’d have told you about her if she did?’

Behind them, their daughter began to cry, awoken by the discordance in the house. Randall stamped out of the room, slamming the door behind him, leaving his wife in anguish and bewilderment.

Kallie had never been prone to tears, but she found it hard to stop them now.

‘I have to do it, Kal. They’re not going to pay me a penny more. I don’t have a job. I don’t have any savings. I can’t get work here. What else can I do?’ Paul was pacing before her in his unravelling turquoise sweater, more angry and confused than she’d ever seen him.

‘There must be something. What about Neil, doesn’t he have any connections?’

‘He sells vases and candle-holders to retailers, for God’s sake. Even if he could find me something, how long do you think I’d last? I’ve always been in the music business. I survived the price-fixing scandals, the Britpop explosion, I made it through hip-hop and the boy bands, but the only growth area is acoustic stuff and I know nothing about that.’