by J.G. Ellis
Chapter Ten
50 Princes Street was, and is, an end-of-terrace house with a narrow muddy footpath and railway line running by it, a tall metal fence topped with barbed wire forbidding access to the latter. A hedge had been planted on the track side to mitigate the fence’s aesthetic ugliness, or simply to obscure the view of the track, and weeds and wild-plants had – presumably later – joined the cause. The house, itself, was incongruously large – rather looked as if it had been lifted from its own grounds elsewhere; ostracised by its neighbours, perhaps, for going to seed and dumped on the end of this residential terrace. The side of the house, I discovered later, had been defaced with graffiti.
The front door was answered by a short man with a shaved head dressed in jeans and a vest. He wore a ring through the left side of his nose, and his shoulders and arms were festooned with tattoos.
I said, “I’m looking for Sharon Hall.” One of the names on Ron’s list.
“Never heard of her,” he said. He was lying; it was obvious. It was probably just a default position – the give-nothing-away response if not necessarily the lying.
I said, “And have you otherwise heard of everyone who resides in this house?”
“Sorry?”
“Flat 4,” I said. “Do you know the person who lives in Flat 4?”
“Who wants to know?”
I smiled. “I want to know,” I said; “that’s why I’m asking. If you have no objection, I’m going to come in and knock on the door of Flat 4.”
He obviously did have an objection, for he pushed the door to and used his body to impede my attempt to enter. I produced my ID and formally introduced myself. He stepped back immediately and rather dramatically – hands up in surrender – and said, “I ain’t done nothing.”
“I don’t recall suggesting you had,” I said, stepping into the hallway. “Where’s Flat 4, or should I just look for it myself?”
“Upstairs on the right,” he said, pointing in the general direction.
I climbed the stairs – the diamond-patterned carpet was discoloured and threadbare – and tapped on a magnolia door with a black number “4” on it. I heard a door close downstairs, presumably the tattooed man returning to his room. The hallway was without any source of natural light, and was dimly lit by a low-wattage eco-friendly bulb designed for a smaller space. Behind me, to my right, a door was ajar and I could just discern part of a mirror and a sink and a light-pull cord – presumably the/a communal bathroom.
No answer from number 4, so I tapped again – harder this time. Almost immediately, a door opened behind me and a female voice said, “She ain’t in.” I turned and saw a pale-faced young woman with oily black hair peering at me through the gap allowed by a door-chain.
“Do you know where she is?” I asked.
“No. And if I did, I probably wouldn’t tell you.”
“When did you last see her, then?” The casual, appended then hopefully suggesting there could be no harm in telling me that much.
“Couple of days ago. Can’t remember for sure. Who are you anyway?”
I showed her my ID, which she scrutinised carefully.
“Can I come in and speak to you?”
She pushed the door to, undid the chain, and opened the door to allow me ingress. As soon as I was in, she closed the door behind me and refastened the chain. I wondered about unwelcome visitors. Though the main light was on, she had not closed the curtains. The sash-window – dirty and without nets – looked out upon a fire-escape zig-zagging down the back of the peeling white building opposite. There was no bed in the room, only a narrow mattress placed directly on the faded bottle-green carpet and pushed against the far wall, the quilt thrown aside to reveal a patterned top sheet that matched the pillowslip but not the quilt cover. Along the same wall, in a recess, stood a Victorian-style mahogany wardrobe with a mirror in the door and a holdall on top of it. Against the near wall stood a chest of drawers, which didn’t match the wardrobe and had probably come at a different time. On top of this sat a portable television, on with the sound down, and a tray with two mugs and a kettle and the bits and pieces necessary for making coffee and tea. By the window was a small table with a single kitchen/dining-room chair. The only other place to sit was on a large, multi-coloured beanbag, its newness and brightness suggesting it had been acquired by the tenant. Next to the head of the bed, or mattress, was a radio/cassette/CD player and a half-empty half-bottle of Scotch. Apart from the window, the room was otherwise clean and tidy.
She said, “Well, go on, then. Ask your questions. We don’t usually get anyone as important as you round here. Usually they just send PC Plod and Thicko, who come round and nick your drugs for themselves.” She was wearing jeans and a baggy opal-green pullover with sleeves that extended down to her finger-nails.
“How well did you know Sharon?” I asked. I had mistakenly used the past tense. I was, I realized, procrastinating in some rather awful personal way – seeking justification rather than information. Justification for what? For breaking into Sharon’s room – which was, after all, what I’d come here to do.
“Has something happened to her?” She looked mildly alarmed, or it could just have been rising emotion at the prospect of some new excitement.
“Do you have a key for her room?” I asked. “Lorraine, is it?” This guess/assumption from Ron’s list.
“No,” she said. Her eyes darted from me to the window and back. “Why would I? You’re scaring me.”
“Do you know of someone who might?”
There was a knock at the door – firm but not aggressive. I waited. She hesitated. She opened the door furtively, like a hostage forced to deal with the postman, or someone more persistent, someone who won’t go away. She mouthed something – “Police”, I think – and tried to shoo the visitor away. I heard a man’s voice say, “Cat told me we had the police again. What’re you worried about, Rain? They’re always coming here. Maybe they like your company.”
She looked at me, unfastened the chain, and opened the door. A tall man with a short Mohican hairstyle and a body-builder’s physique stepped into the room. He was wearing a tight yellow cap-sleeved T-shirt, black jogging-pants, and black trainers. His skin was talcum-powder white. Rain said, “This is Ken.” She seemed at a loss when it came to me, so I said, “Chief Inspector Black.”
He smiled. “Not your usual, common-or-garden fuzz. Have you been moving up in the criminal world, Rain?” His accent hailed from somewhere west of the Pennines – Manchester probably.
Rain – presumably Lorraine – said, “Fuck off, Ken.”
Ken, noticing me noticing him, said, “Seeing something you like, Chief Inspector?”
I – playing along as it were – said, “Yes, a big strong man, who wouldn’t have any difficulty kicking in the door of Flat 4.”
Silence laden with suspicion.
Finally, and seriously: “Now why would you want me to do a thing like that?”
I said, “Because I’m worried about Sharon.”
He considered – made much of so doing – and then said, “Okay.” To Lorraine, he said, “Remember, she asked.”
I followed him out into the hallway. He stood back, lifted his right foot, and forcibly planted the sole of his trainer against the barrel of the Yale lock. The door jarred in, bending the jamb back and the strike-plate with it. It took me a second or less to confirm that Sharon was dead, for it was horribly obvious, and that she had taken her own life. She had hanged herself from a hook on the back of the wardrobe using a silk scarf. The wardrobe door was open and it rather looked as if she, or a purple-faced doll, had slid out of it onto the floor. I picked up an unlined piece of white paper, which lay next to her. Three handwritten sentences in three lines, all ending in exclamation marks: Didn’t ask to be here! Not enjoying the trip! Bye!
