Thirteen Steps Down (33 page)

for this sort of role. The money was mind-blowing, the work minimal.

Visiting their Mayfair salon for preliminary tests, she wondered why she

wasn't feeling a greater thrill. But she didn't wonder for long. She knew.

Darel Jones had made it plain he wanted her for a friend only, someone

to protect perhaps, a mate, a standby to make upthe numbers at dinner.

Her mother said a man and a womancan't be friends, they have to be

lovers or nothing. Nerissaknew differently. Perhaps what her mother said

had been truewhen she was young. It wasn't true now that women had

careersand approached nearer to equality. She knew men who weren't

gay but who had a woman friend with whom they had been at school or

university and were close to for years without ever even exchanging a

kiss. Was that how it was going to befor her and Darel?

Not if she could help it. Sometimes she felt positive, atother times like

she did now, rather despondent, with nothing to distract her from the

certainty that what she wanted morethan anything in the world, that he

should fall in love with her,would never happen. The man Cellini hadn't

shown himself outside her house since she had seen him on Saturday.

Seeing him was the last thing she wanted but, on the other hand, if he

showed up in his car and waited for her to appear, it would bean excuse

for calling Darel.

She wandered about her house, newly cleaned and tidied by Lynette,

and resolved to try and keep it that way. She oughtnot to be so messy,

Mum was always saying so, saying she hadbeen brought up to be neat

and this was the result of too muchmoney too soon. Darel's flat was a

miracle of order. It wouldn't always be like that, she thought, picking up

a tissue she had dropped on the bathroom floor, no doubt he had made

its specially tidy for his guests, but he was obviously a well

disciplinedman. In the unlikely event of his coming here—and with each

day that passed it seemed to become less probable he would be put off

her by all the cups and glasses that habitually stood around, the

magazines dumped on the floor, and absurd combinations like a bottle of

nail varnish in the fruitbowl. She was as bad as old Miss Chawcer, who,

Aunty Olivesaid, kept a flashlight in the fridge and bread in a bag on the

floor.

On Friday afternoon, Dad once more having the Akwaas'car, she had

promised to drive her mother to St. Blaise House. Hazel said it would be

polite for her to call on Miss Chawcer, ask how she was and if there was

anything she could do. Miss Chawcer was so very old and frail, she had

been ill and must really be quite helpless.

"Oh, Mum, don't ask me. He lives there. Can't Andrew do it?"

"Andrew will be in court in Cambridge. You needn't come in, Nerissa,

just drop me."

So Nerissa had said she would. She'd drop her mother and come back

for her after an hour. After all, if she did see the man, or the man saw

her and came out to speak to her, she could call Darel on her car-phone.

She dressed carefully, mistress as she was of the smart-casual look, in

new olive drab combat trousers, a low-cut top and satin jacket. But when

she was ready she realized that the clothes designed to attract Darel

would also be attractive to the man, so she took them all off and got back

into her jeans and T-shirt. Besides, though this was inimical to

everything she worked to attain and to everything those she worked for

took as gospel, she believedmen never noticed what a woman wore, only

that she "lookedgood" or did not.

It would be just her luck when she had no time to spare to find the man

waiting outside, but no one was there. Campden Hill Square lay deserted

and silent, sizzling in the heat that continued into September. Her car

had been standing in the sun and the driver's seat was almost hot

enough to burn her. She picked up her mother from Acton and drove

down to St. Blaise Avenue, dropping her off outside Miss

Chawcer'shouse. There was no sign of the man, nor did she meet

himdriving to Tesco in West Kensington, where she did her week's

shopping, buying in addition to a quantity of sparkling water, a lot of

salad stuff, and some fish, two bottles of a very good Pinot Grigio because

she had noticed that this was what Darel drank.

The spell that disabled its victim's spinal column came by second-class

post. Hecate had always been as mean as hell. Shoshana had expected

some potion or powder, which would have meant she had to think up a

way of administering it and virtually eliminated anyone she had no easy

access to, but thiswas only incantations over a smoking mixture in a

crucible. As far as Shoshana could see, the spell might as well have

beensent by e-mail. On the other hand, it was miles long and Hecate was

too cheeseparing to get herself a scanner.

"I may as well give it a go," Shoshana said to the wizard andt he owl. Who

better to try it out on than Mix Cellini?

Gwendolen had graduated from the sofa and was sitting in anarmchair,

well into the last chapter of The Golden Bowl, the thong in a brown paper

bag on her lap, ready to show to the lodger. Hazel had let herself in with

her aunt's key, and though Gwendolen didn't jump or look as if she was

about to have a heart attack, she seemed less than pleased to see her.

She didn't quite ask her visitor what she was doing here. " Imust get

those keys back. I suppose your aunt had another one cut. Without

asking me of course."

"How are you?"

"Oh, I'm much better, my dear." Gwendolen was softening. She put the

book down with the letter from the cystic fibrosis charity to mark the

place. "What have you got there?" Seedlesswhite grapes, William pears,

Ferrero-Rocher chocolates, and a bottle of Merlot. Gwendolen was less

disapproving than usual. She never ate any fruit except stewed apples

but she would enjoy the chocolates and the wine. "I see you're more

discerning than your aunt and her friend."

Hazel didn't know what to say. She had realized she was going to find

conversation difficult with this elderly lady whom once, long ago, her own

father would have called a bluestocking.Hazel didn't read much and was

aware she couldn't talk about books or any of the things that probably

interested MissChawcer. She was struggling to comment on the weather,

the improvement in Miss Chawcer's health, and the beauty of her house

when the doorbell rang.

"Who on earth can that be?"

"Do you want to see anyone or shall I say to come back anothertime?"

"Just get rid of them," said Gwendolen. "Say what you like."

It might be a letter from Stephen Reeves come by special delivery.

Gwendolen hadn't yet heard from him and she was growing quite

anxious. Suppose the letter had gone astray? Hazel went to the door. A

man of about sixty, tall and handsomeand wearing a turban, stood on

the doorstep. To Hazel's eyes he looked very like a Pathan warrior she

had once seen in a film about the North-West Frontier.

"Good afternoon, madam. Mr. Singh from St. Mark's Road to see Miss

Chawcer, please."

"I'm afraid Miss Chawcer hasn't been well. She's been inhospital. Could

you possibly come back tomorrow? Well, nottomorrow. Say Sunday?"

"Certainly I say Sunday, madam. I return eleven A.M."

"What did he want?" Gwendolen asked.

"I didn't ask. Should I have?"

"It doesn't matter. I know, anyway. It's about his wretched guinea fowl.

Otto must have eaten them. I found feathers ont he stairs. Now I expect

this man wants compensation."

Hazel was beginning to think this a very strange household,what with

this old bluestocking and the stalker upstairs and now a person with a

German name who ate the neighbors' poultry. She began to look forward

to Nerissa's return and was relieved when the doorbell rang.

"Who is it this time? I can't think why I've suddenly become so

popular."

"It's my daughter."

"Ah." Gwendolen inevitably associated the daughter, and would

associate her for the rest of the life that remained to her,with

uncontrolled amorous behavior in her hallway. "I don't suppose she will

want to come in."

Hazel saw this as an unprovoked put-down and was veryglad to be

leaving. "Why had Aunty Olive never told her what an old horror Miss

Chawcer was? She said a cool good-bye and rushed out to Nerissa, who

was waiting on the doorstep in a fever of nerves in case the man

suddenly appeared.

Gwendolen fell asleep as soon as she was gone. Since her illness she

was finding a rest in the afternoon wasn't goode nough; she needed to

sleep. Dreaming she didn't need but the dream came to her, sharper and

more vivid than any nighttime episode, apparently real and happening in

the present. She was young, as she always was in dreams, and visiting

Christie in Rillington Place. The war was on, the only one she ever

thoughtof as "the war," discounting conflicts in Korea and Suez and the

Falklands and Bosnia and the Persian Gulf. Sirens were sounding as she

knocked on Christie's door, for in the dream that seemed real it was she

who was pregnant and she who was going to him for an abortion. Only,

like Bertha, but there was no Bertha in this reality, she was afraid of the

man and his instructions and she fled, determined not to go back. When

sh ecame out, as is the way with dreams, instead of in Rillington Place

she was with Stephen Reeves in the drawing room at St.Blaise House

and he was telling her he was the father of her child. It was a shock to

her, a surprise and a relief. She thought then he would ask her to marry

him, but the scene shifted again. She was alone in Ladbroke Grove,

standing outside his surgery in the sudden dusk, and he was nowhere to

be seen. She was running this way and that, looking for him, when she

fell over, banged her head, and woke up.

Such daylight dreams take longer to recover from than any nightmare

met with in the hours of darkness. For a moment or two she lay in the

armchair, wondering where he was and when he would come back. She

even looked at her hands and marveled that at her young age they were

so wrinkled, the branching veins standing out like tree roots in dry soil.

Gradually, ar eality that was welcome yet unwelcome came back and she

sat up.

Whileshe slept and perhaps while she was talking to Hazel Akwaa, the

brown paper bag containing the thong had slippeddown between the seat

cushion and the arm of the armchair. Wide awake now, she had

forgotten it was there.

Chapter 22

Mix left the company for which he had worked for nine years more with a

whimper than a bang. He felt very sore because no one had suggested

buying him a drink, still less had anyone presented him with a clock or a

dinner service, and no noises had been made about redundancy money.

Worst of all he hadt o hand over the keys to the car, which he had left in

the firm'sunderground car park.

But he comforted himself with the thought that he had

securedundertakings from five of his clients that they would continue

using him to service and repair their machines. Inquiring of a cash

dispenser as to the state of his bank balance, he had been informed he

was nearly five hundred pounds in credit. And that was before the sum

went in which the firm owed him for the three weeks they didn't want

him to work. Still he lacked the heart to go back to Campden Hill Square.

Whenhe did make it down there he'd have no choice but to go on foot. At

any rate, the walk would do him good.

On the Friday he went to the cinema on his own, passing on the way

home pubs whose clientele spilled out onto the pavements and cafes

where diners sat at tables outside. He bought Chinese takeaway for his

supper, two bottles of wine, and abottle of Cointreau for the making of

Boot Camps. The weather was as hot as it had been in July and as dry.

One afternoon ithad rained heavily, the first rain for weeks, and while he

watched it he relished the thought of all that water encouraging weeds to

grow on the garden grave.

Going home was always an ordeal but less so if he could organize

things so as to get back in daylight. That would soon bed ifficult with

darkness coming earlier and earlier. Carrying his heavy bags, he kept his

eyes fixed straight ahead as he climbedthe last flight of stairs, gazing

hypnotically at his own frontdoor. Something had gone wrong with the

street lamp immediately outside the house so that no light fell through

the Isabella window. The top landing was pitch dark but once inside his

flat he was all right. He was safe. And his back didn't hurt anymore. He

must be pretty fit to have got over a back injury so fast.

He read Killer Extraordinary, watched television to the accompaniment

of a Boot Camp, ate his takeaway and listened tothe singing and sighing

of the Westway. If the police were going to question him about Danila

they would have done it by now. Possibly, after years, after old Chawcer

was dead, which might be ages away, someone would buy the house and

dig up the garden. They wouldn't dig down four feet, would they? By then