by Alex Pavesi
Julia wondered if he was telling her the truth. ‘It would be quite a big coincidence, given the timing.’
Grant smiled once again. ‘That depends on what you’re comparing it to.’
‘Yes, well.’ Her hands were tired from taking notes. ‘Shall we take a break?’
5. A Detective and His Evidence
A discreet gentleman, dressed smartly in a dark blue suit, was passing through one of the three streets that formed the boundaries of a small square in Central London, when he had the misfortune to step in a puddle. It was five minutes before noon. For a man in his state of mind, both distracted and agitated, the incongruity of this was enough to bring him to a sudden stop. He looked down at his shoes in a sort of self-pitying disbelief; it was a pleasant late summer’s day, after all, and it hadn’t rained for three weeks.
He watched his reflection take shape as the murky surface of the puddle renewed itself. There was his round face, floating above his shoulders. There were his dark hair and elaborate black moustache, squashed between his suit and the blue sky. There was his almost non-existent neck. His eyes followed the trail of wet pavement from the puddle up to its source: a display outside a florist’s shop, where an audience of flowers in childish colours were nodding their heads at him in half-hearted sympathy. The man swore under his breath and turned and looked moodily at the neighbouring buildings, as if searching for a way to get revenge on the street itself.
And that was how it all began.
The square was called Colchester Gardens. That was also the name of its vaguely rectangular private park, which sat at the intersection of two roads and was bounded by a narrower, more meandering third road that linked the other two and cut off the corner. This third road was called Colchester Terrace and the man in the dark blue suit stood halfway along it, hidden from the two busier roads by the gardens themselves.
The residents of Colchester Terrace were the only ones supplied with keys to the park; the man in dark blue, like everybody else, could merely look at it through the bars of the black metal fence. He glanced to his left, then to his right. The street was deserted and the florist’s shop was closed, with no explanation. There was a greengrocer’s on the corner that seemed to be open, but nobody was coming or going.
On the other side of the railings were two young girls. They were struggling with a large paper plane that wouldn’t take flight. It was made from a folded sheet of splendid purple craft paper and was the size of a small dog. Their laughter was the only sound he could hear, as they took turns to try to launch it. Each time they tried, it flew for two or three yards, then seemed to meet a great wave of resistance and spiralled either haltingly into the sky or hastily down towards the ground, at which point they would both scream theatrically and try again, furious and hopeless and infected with laughter.
The man in dark blue watched them for almost a minute and then took a step towards the fence. He wrapped his hands around the railings and pressed his forehead between two of the sharp, ornamental fleurs-de-lis that emerged from the top of them.
‘Girls,’ he called. They both stopped laughing and looked at him. They must have been about the same age and they wore similar blue dresses. ‘Girls, what are your names?’
One of them was less shy than the other; the one with a reddish tint to her hair. She took a step towards him, while the other one sat down on the grass. ‘I’m Rose,’ she said. ‘And that’s my friend Maggie.’
Maggie looked down at the mention of her name.
‘Well, girls, my name is Christopher. And now that we are no longer strangers, let me give you some help with flying that plane.’ He pointed. Rose looked down at the forgotten toy. It sat on the grass between her and Maggie, as forlorn as her friend. ‘It just needs a little weight at the front, then it will fly.’
Rose stared uncertainly at the tangle of paper, reluctant to pick it up; it was an insult to be invited into the world of adult conversation by a serious-looking man and then immediately to be cast back as a child by being asked to hand him a toy.
‘Here,’ he said. ‘Take this.’ He took a small card from the inside breast pocket of his suit and tore it in half. One half he placed back in his pocket, the other he folded three times into a small, stubby rectangle and held out through the railings. Rose took it automatically and stared down at it, a disappointing gift. ‘Tuck it inside the front of the plane, in the nose. Then try again.’
She was ready to protest that they weren’t really bothered about flying it, that they were just passing the time, and really she was too old for such things. But there was something warm about his voice that cancelled out these objections, a conspiratorial flavour that she found comforting. She slotted the card into the plane, as instructed. Then she ran a few paces with it. He watched her arms as she reached out to propel the plane forward: it flew for twenty yards this time before skidding to a graceful stop, like a large knife cutting through the sky. He smiled and then looked at the other girl, hoping for her approval.
But Maggie sat picking at the grass, looking rather bored. There is something not quite right about that girl, he thought. She glanced up at him surreptitiously and he realized then that she was neither sulking nor bored, but scared of him. He stepped back in a flame of self-doubt. He watched her for a few moments more, then made his decision.
‘You girls have a splendid day now.’
He bowed briefly to Rose. She waved back enthusiastically.
And then he left.
At twenty minutes past twelve, Alice Cavendish was walking through the eponymous park of Colchester Gardens – towards the black gate that led out onto the street – when she saw her sister and the younger Clements girl playing with their dolls.
Alice was in a good mood, so she changed direction and headed towards the two of them. Tucked inside her light summer jacket was a letter from Richard, saying how nice it was to have seen her last week, that he’d got her the gift she’d asked for and did she think they might go for a walk sometime? She’d stolen away to the darkest part of the park – to a shaded triangle between three stout plane trees, spaced a few yards apart – to sit down and open it in private. The grass had been slightly wet, since it was so well hidden from the sun, but his words had been sweet enough that she was able to relish every sensation, even the damp.
‘Morning, Maggie,’ she said to her sister, ‘what are you two doing?’
Rose stood up. ‘It’s afternoon, silly.’
‘Hello there, Rose.’
‘You must call her Mrs Clements,’ said Maggie. ‘We’re playing that we’re widows and that these are our orphans.’ She indicated the two dolls. Alice laughed, unsure of whether to inform her sister of the semantic mistake or to enquire further about the nature of their game. She decided, in the end, to do neither.
‘Where is the aeroplane I made for you yesterday? I thought you were going to fly it today if the weather was nice?’
Rose Clements, who always had to speak first, again stood up with a burst of energy and pointed at a nearby tree, taking a few steps towards it as she spoke: ‘There!’
The purple plane, which was entwined with the leaves high up on a branch, looked like a shard of stained glass from this distance.
‘Oh dear,’ said Alice. ‘That is unlucky.’
‘It was the man’s fault,’ said Maggie. ‘Everything was fine until he changed it.’
That cryptic comment seemed to fill Alice with a vague sense of apprehension, to the point where she wasn’t even sure if she’d heard it correctly. But then Rose’s previous statement came back to her suddenly and all her other thoughts faded away. ‘Did you say it was afternoon already?’
Rose nodded. ‘The church bell went ages ago.’
Alice had been too busy daydreaming to notice. ‘I must take Mummy her tea.’
And everything else was quickly forgotten.
She rushed over to the gate and out onto Colchester Terrace, then down a few doors to their house. It was when she reached f
or the doorknob that she noticed how filthy her hands were. ‘Oh dear,’ she said to herself, examining them closely. There was a thick curved line of dirt under her thumbnail, like a pool of uneaten sauce along the edge of a plate.
She opened the towering red door and stepped into the hallway. Elise, the maid, appeared at the far end of the corridor. Alice took off her jacket and gave it to Elise, slipping Richard’s letter from the pocket as she did so. ‘Elise, will you prepare Mummy’s tea? I shall take it up to her if she’s awake.’ Elise nodded, vanishing into the darkness at the distant side of the house.
Alice crept into her father’s study, which was immediately to the right of the front door, and – being careful not to touch anything – sat down at his desk and read the letter again.
A few minutes later, Elise was waiting for Alice on the first-floor landing. She was holding a tray with a cup of hot, copper-coloured tea and a gaudy slice of lemon; Alice took it from her and carried it up to the top floor of the house. She entered the large master bedroom, announcing herself with a gentle knock.
‘Good afternoon, Alice.’ Her pale mother had propped herself up in bed and sat like a bookmark between the flowing white sheets, wearing a crimson robe. Alice put the tray down and went to the window and opened the curtains; her mother winced and pulled the sheets up to her neck, as if the daylight itself would make her colder. The window looked out onto the square and from this height Alice could see that insufferable Rose Clements chasing her sister from tree to tree with a chrysanthemum in her hand, like a kind of sword; she could also see her own hiding place between the three trees, just about.
‘How are you feeling this afternoon, Mummy?’ And she went to the bed and took her mother’s hand in her own.
‘Improving with your presence, as always, sweetheart. Though I slept poorly and my lungs feel very sore.’ Her daughter smiled sympathetically. ‘Why, Alice darling, you’re filthy!’ Her mother’s eyes widened. Alice withdrew her hand, as if she’d been holding it too close to a candle, and rubbed her thumb against her fingertips.
‘I know, Mummy. I got my hands dirty picking flowers.’
‘And then rubbed them all over your face, to look at it.’
‘Oh dear.’ Alice went to the mirror on her mother’s dressing table and saw that it was true. She’d been absentmindedly touching her hair while reading the letter from Richard, picking compulsively at the grass and anxiously tearing leaves into pieces. There were several muddy smudges around her eyebrows and chin. ‘Gosh. Mummy, I should go and have a bath. Will you comb my hair afterwards?’
‘Of course, my darling.’
And she hurried down the stairs and found Elise on the first floor, dusting the children’s old nursery. ‘Will you run me a bath, Elise?’
At seven minutes before one o’clock, Alice Cavendish entered the bathroom of her family home on Colchester Terrace and pulled the curtain across the window. There was no building directly opposite so the gesture was unnecessary and merely darkened the room, but the added sense of privacy was precious to her. She wanted to read the letter from Richard again; it was currently tucked inside the waistband of her skirt.
She undressed and placed her clothes on a chair next to the door, then put the letter on top of them and moved it next to the bathtub. She held her breath as she stepped into the beautifully warm water.
‘And how do you wash your hair in the bath?’
That is what her mind went back to, now that she was free from any interruptions: the memory of her friend Lesley Clements asking her this question one dreamy autumn day when they were playing together in the park, as she sieved handfuls of dry leaves from her long red hair.
‘I mean the actual technique. I have my own, but I’m curious about yours.’
‘You tell me yours first,’ said Alice, fearful that she might embarrass herself.
‘No, no,’ said Lesley. ‘I asked, so you have to tell first. Don’t be shy, I’m just curious. You always have such neat hair.’
Alice grew morose. ‘It used to be that Mummy would stand by the bath with a basin and pour the water over my head. But when she got ill she couldn’t do that any more. I suppose I’d be too old for that now, even if she could. Elise did it for a while, but it never felt quite right. Normally I sit there with a basin, bent forward, and pour the water over my own head.’
‘That sounds laborious,’ said Lesley, who was now miming the action to see if it felt natural. ‘I don’t think I could do it. I’ve never found any way to wash my hair other than to take a deep breath and put my entire head under the water for about a minute. It’s not very ladylike but I find it almost exciting.’
‘I used to like doing that, too,’ Alice laughed. ‘Mummy always told me off. She says it’s dangerous to hold your breath, even if it’s only for a few seconds.’
Lesley rolled her eyes. ‘Well, you can do it now and she’d never know, would she?’
And that was true: ever since then Alice had indulged herself, whenever she was feeling lazy, by washing her hair in the way her friend had described. And today was no exception. She pinched her nose with her right hand and submerged her whole head under the water, then ran her left hand along the length of her fair hair until it felt silky and untangled. She managed about twenty seconds before she could feel the lack of breath starting to bite; after that the feeling of coming to the surface was almost ecstatic, as Lesley had hinted. She took a few deep breaths and went down to do it again, closing her eyes and thinking of Richard while her shoulders sank slowly into place at the bottom of the tub.
When she dipped down into the water for a third time, somebody hurried over to the side of the tub and placed their hand in the water above her head. That was all. They didn’t press down, not yet. They’d been watching from the doorway, slightly behind the bath, and knew that she would stay submerged until she ran out of breath. It would be wasteful to do anything before that happened.
When Alice had been holding her breath for fifteen seconds, with her eyes closed, running her fingers through a length of hair pulled over her left shoulder and across her chest, she raised her forehead slightly and felt something brush against her skin. It was almost imperceptible; at first she thought it was just her forehead touching the surface, so she didn’t immediately begin to panic. But when she raised her head further she found that it wasn’t the surface at all, that what she was feeling was the touch of warm wet leather, and when she opened her eyes she saw only darkness where the gloved hand covered them. She tried to sit up. The hand closed over her face and pushed her back down. She reached up with both hands but her right arm was seized and pinned against the edge of the bath and her left was powerless against the arm holding her head. She reached to where she might plausibly find a face, but she found only shoulders; the arm seemed to be made of iron and her fingernails did nothing to it. Her legs flailed against the far end of the bath but found no purchase. Something seemed to be squashing her. She’d been underwater for about forty seconds by this point. She had roughly the same time again before her consciousness would start to get hazy and her body would start to weaken. That short amount of time was the only warning she had of her impending death; it was not long enough to wonder who might be murdering her or why. Instead she spent the whole of it trying her hardest to scream.
Shortly after three o’clock on that same afternoon, Detective Inspector Laurie and Detective Sergeant Bulmer approached the black bars of Colchester Gardens. To get their bearings they agreed to walk in opposite directions around the park, so that they seemed to converge on the house a few minutes later, like two people meeting by chance. Bulmer was a big man with heavy hands and an ill-fitting suit, while Laurie was a man of slight build, with small round glasses and heavily oiled hair: one might be asking the other for the time, or for directions, but they didn’t look like two men who would know each other.
Bulmer leaned back against the wall outside the house and looked up at the three-storey building, with its cream-coloured
façade. ‘How bad do you think it will be in there?’
Laurie was looking at a flower bed by the front door. There was an oval indentation in the soil. ‘Particularly bad, given that she was the favourite daughter.’ He waved his hand at the flowers as if he was reading this information directly from them.
Bulmer walked over and looked down; he gave Laurie the glance of playful suspicion that began so many of their conversations. ‘I don’t understand.’
‘There were two girls playing in the park when I passed. One of them had a purple flower in her hair. The flower came from here.’ He looped his forefinger around a weeping green stem from which the head had been pulled. ‘So the girl most likely came from this house. Note the child’s footprint here in the soil. And yet despite the fact there has been a murder, that little girl has been left outside unsupervised. I would suggest that her parents have forgotten about her, caught up in their own grief.’
Bulmer looked over at the two girls and nodded at the artistry of his colleague at work. ‘Though I suppose she’s safe enough,’ he added. ‘There’s an officer at each corner of the park.’
‘Nonetheless, you would expect the parents to want to keep her close at a time like this. Anyway, the room through that window there,’ he pointed at the glass next to the front door, ‘appears to be the father’s study. I drew the same conclusion from the photographs on his desk, which are almost all of the older daughter.’
Bulmer stepped up to the window and quoted the line he’d heard Laurie repeat on many occasions: ‘Because theories are never facts. And each one must be confirmed by several pieces of evidence.’ He looked at his colleague and nodded, after seeing the photographs for himself.
