by Penny Kline
On Monday, Jane had forgotten all about Arthur’s lesson and on Tuesday evening Willa had phoned, suggesting the tuition was put off for the time being.
‘Until you feel better, Jane.’ Willa had sounded tearful. ‘Until we all do. How do you ever get over something like that?’
Was she thinking about Corinne or herself? Herself, Jane suspected. Willa would have no sympathy for Corinne. She had stolen Noel from her. ‘No, tell Arthur to come on Friday as usual. I find it’s best to try to carry on as normal.’
‘What could have happened?’
‘He must have lost his balance.’
‘Yes.’ Willa sounded as though she had reason to think otherwise. Was she right? Noel’s whispered word, but it could have been air escaping from his lungs. Or Eddie could have been up there, watching him, waiting for her chance. No, that was not how her mind worked. Noel would have been leaning over. Too far, on tiptoe perhaps. And Eddie would have needed little strength, although she was still physically strong enough to tip him over.
Head down, Arthur was scribbling away at the exercise she had given him – a piece of prose that contained several grammatical errors it was his job to spot and correct.
Crossing to a shelf, Jane picked up Eddie’s book about Chagall and began flicking through the illustrations. Her back was turned but she sensed Arthur was watching her. It was hot in the loft – heat rose – and lacked sufficient ventilation. The back of her blouse had stuck to her skin and she feared she might smell of sweat. Super-duper antiperspirants were available, as the ads on television informed you nightly, but they brought her out in rash. The one she used was harmless but less effective.
As she turned the pages, she noticed, to her annoyance, that her hands were shaking. With nerves? How absurd. A child on its own rarely behaved badly. Groups of them, yes, since there was safety in numbers, but even the most disruptive of pupils could be charming if he or she had your whole attention. Not that she had ever had any problems with discipline. Eddie claimed it was because the children were afraid of her, but that was nonsense. She had never raised her voice because she had never needed to.
But her shaking hands, and fast-beating heart, had nothing to do with Arthur.
Turning more pages, she came across a handwritten note. Eddie’s thoughts on an exhibition. Would she still enjoy looking at paintings? No, it was out of the question. Jane had once seen a man throw one of his shoes at a Monet. Supposing the same thought occurred to Eddie. Sadly, Jane reflected, she was unlikely to go to any more exhibitions herself. She avoided television programmes about art too, and was only studying the Chagall book to give her something to do. Lovers in the Moonlight. The Blue Violinist. Two different paintings called I and the Village. I and Faraday Road, she thought, and for a split second rather regretted she had never learned to draw. Gus, with his craggy face and slightly protruding eyes, would have made a good subject.
Her thoughts were interrupted by Arthur noisily pushing back his chair.
‘Finished?’ She replaced Chagall on the shelf.
‘Absolutely.’
He had rushed it. Perhaps the exercise was too easy for him. Perhaps he felt insulted. His handwriting was appalling. Deliberately slapdash, a way of telling her he wished he was anywhere else but in her house?
‘Does your friend live here, the one that did the paintings?’
‘Not now. She used to.’ The question had thrown her. ‘They’re lovely, aren’t they? Do you like art?’
‘Gave it up.’ He was resting his chin on his knuckles and looked perfectly at ease, almost asleep. Because he had diverted her attention away from his work? On second thoughts, he had been relaxed ever since she let him into the house. She was the tense one.
‘I didn’t come before,’ he said. ‘Because of ... you know.’
‘Yes. Thank you. That was thoughtful of you.’
‘I reckon it was harsh, you finding the body. Must have been a shock.’
‘Yes, yes it was.’ Jane had no wish to think about it but if it helped the boy come to terms with the tragedy, it was up to her to let him talk.
Taking two pencils from the jar, he lined them up, parallel with the edge of the table. ‘I reckon he had it coming.’
‘Oh, Arthur, that’s an awful thing to say. What makes you . oh, you mean because he wasn’t always as careful as —’
‘I reckon the cops should have asked more questions.’
‘What kind of questions?’ It was wrong to encourage him but she was unable to stop herself.
‘Like if someone saw someone following him.’ He was smiling to himself. ‘You know my dad?’
‘I do.’
‘Mum was listening to The Archers. She loves The Archers.’
Jane did too. Sometimes she listened to it on her tablet, using her finger to move the recording on, past the farming stuff, until it reached another juicy bit.
‘Anyway, Dad kept interrupting, saying Noel had enemies, and Mum told him to shut his mouth, and Dad smiled, and she hit him.’
‘We’re all upset about what happened.’
‘I’m not.’ He stared at her but Jane remained silent. ‘Dave didn’t like him either. Simmy heard Noel and her dad having an argument.’
She should be telling him off for listening to gossip. ‘When?’
‘Yesterday Simmy asked if her mother had done a crime and Dave went to the bog, I mean the toilet, and slammed the door. Simmy thinks Noel knew her mother was in prison and he was going to tell her, and Dave found out and —’
‘It was an accident, Arthur. A tragic accident.’ She rubbed together her damp palms, picked up his work, and started checking it. ‘You missed an error in the first paragraph.’ She pointed to a word. ‘It should have been an adverb, not an adjective.
‘The lad’s done good.’ He laughed. ‘That’s wrong, isn’t it, but what are they supposed to say? “The lad’s done well” doesn’t sound right, does it? I used to think I’d be a good football commentator.’
‘Perhaps you might.’ She was watching him carefully, but his face rarely gave anything away.
‘Doctors used to be called quacks. Quacking means boasting. The doctor treated his wife badly. “Badly” is an adverb, right? And the stupid doctor treated his wife badly. Stupid’s an adjective because it describes a noun.’ He was spluttering with laughter. ‘You know that parcel you brought to our house?’
Jane pretended to search for something in a pocket. ‘Mum said it was a present for my dad but when it was his birthday she gave him a book about the Lake District. The one you brought round wasn’t a book. People like getting parcels.’
‘They do.’ What was he telling her? That he had found the “patent leather” outfit? Worse, that he had seen his mother trying it on?
‘Mum buys a lot of stuff online, to cheer herself up. Mostly clothes so I expect that’s what was in the parcel.’ He had his tongue in his cheek, literally. ‘Another of those tops people wear so you can’t see how their stomach sticks out. D’you s’pose that’s what it was?’
‘I’ve no idea, Arthur. Now, to get back to the use of adverbs and adjectives ...’ But just now he had no interest in English grammar. And neither did she.
‘Simmy had another idea for a computer game. Murders from the past. Cold cases. I told her there was probably one already but she didn’t care. She’s making a list of motives. Motive and opportunity.’
‘Yes, well why not write two paragraphs on the subject.’
‘Now?’
‘Yes, now.’
He looked up. ‘It’s a hard life. That’s what my dad thinks. “Hard” is an adjective. And the only way to make it better is to buy stuff excessively. Excessively is an adverb. Right? That’s my mum, the buying stuff.’
‘Two paragraphs, Arthur.’ Jane was losing patience. ‘Motive and opportunity, but write it as though it’s the opening to a crime novel. Do you think you can do that?’
‘Dunno. Yes, all right. The characters can be drug dealers,
a man and a woman. I reckon most of the people who drive four-by-fours are drug dealers.’
‘That’s ridiculous.’
He laughed. ‘I know. Noel had a four-by-four. I’ve never seen Corinne driving it.’
After he left she went in search of Rousseau. If she could persuade him to sit on her knees, she could stroke him and it might have a calming effect. She found him in the airing cupboard – either she had left it open or he had learned how to open it with his paw – sitting on the bedspread from Eddie’s bed. Her sheets and duvet cover were in the laundry basket, waiting for Jane’s next big wash, but she had put away the blue bedspread as soon as she came back from returning Eddie to The Spruces.
‘Come here, you beastly cat. A nice sunny day, you ought to be out in the garden.’ She was talking to him as if he was a child. He would pick up that she was near breaking point – animals were sensitive to such things. ‘Oh, Rousseau, what are we going do?’
He licked his nose, almost as though preparing to answer her rhetorical question, then sprang from his shelf in the cupboard, and darted down the stairs, and she heard the click of the cat flap.
Now what? Stop thinking the worst. Arthur enjoyed observing the residents of Faraday Road. They were grist to his computer game. He was enjoying speculating about Noel’s accident but it had never crossed his mind Eddie could have had any part in it.
Pushed. The word she had barely heard. But she had heard it. Finding a pad and a ballpoint pen, she started making a list of suspects, anyone who had even the flimsiest of motives.
TWENTY-FOUR
Dave was returning from his workshop and the expression on his face told her it would not be a good time to mention Simmy’s mother. And surely even Simmy would realise her problem had to be put on hold for a day or two. Dave’s hands were occupied, rolling a cigarette, and his phone was balanced between his shoulder and ear.
‘Too right.’ He gave a short, unpleasant laugh. ‘No, not a chance.’ Then, spotting Jane, ‘Ring you back when I’ve fixed a date.’
‘Had a busy day, Dave?’
He lit his roll-up. ‘Simmy been bothering you?’
‘She’s never a bother. I’m fond of her, she’s a sweet girl.’
‘Depends what mood she’s in. How are you? Bad luck you were the one that found him. I was at an auction. Other side of town.’
There was something different about him but she was unable to put her finger on what it was. He looked older, his face more lined. How old was he? It was something she had never thought about, along with avoiding examining his expression too closely, for fear it elicited a comment from his sharp tongue. What are you up to, Jane, checking on the neighbours, making sure we toe the line, don’t put our bins out on the wrong day.
‘Saw the Molloy boy leaving your house,’ he said. ‘He and Sim play computer games, at least that’s what she says they do.’
‘You’re not implying ... I’m sure there’s nothing like that. I expect Simmy’s told you they’re devising their own game.’ Cronus, the bad father, who ate his own children. ‘Arthur says she’s very good at IT. It will stand her in good stead.’
‘You think so?’
‘I do.’
On the opposite side of the road, the old man from number twenty-four was drawing a line of chalk round a pile of dog shit. Not the work of Lucky, from number twenty-six – the turds were large, could even be human. Jane shuddered and Dave noticed and gave a gnome-like chuckle.
‘Been to India?’
‘No, have you?’
‘Years ago. They think we’re too squeamish. Some parts you have to step your way through shit. Get used to. Can get used to anything.’
‘That may be true. Perhaps not anything.’
‘Once you’ve got a kid it puts an end to foreign travel.’
‘I don’t see why. You could take Simmy with you.’ Jane was trying to picture Dave “years ago”, a student perhaps, on holiday with Simmy’s mother. ‘A holiday would do you both good. Simmy mentioned a caravan in Cornwall.’
Dave stared at her. His deep-set eyes were intimidating and Jane suspected he intended them to be. ‘ Yes, well, some of us have work to do.’
‘Of course, but you need a break now and again.’
‘Away from the scene of the crime you mean.’ He jerked his head towards the loft conversion. ‘Mrs Garcia been back?’
‘I haven’t seen her.’
‘Gus says she’s going to let the loft to a band. Two members of some rock group. One of them plays the drums.’
‘Are you sure?’
He grinned. He was joking. But she would take his words at face value, call his bluff. ‘Oh well, if you’re right, I believe there’s something you can do to deaden the sound. They’re called mutes. I think that’s the right name. They had a programme about noise pollution and disruptive neighbours.’
‘Watch a lot of telly, do you?’
‘It was on the radio. You have one in your workshop, I believe, so you can listen to jazz.’
‘If I get much more work, I’ll have to take on a partner.’
‘Really? You must be doing well.’
‘Not what Simmy thinks. She thinks I should get a proper job. With some big company that paid me a monthly salary. And have some idiot telling me what to do.’
‘Is that what she said?’
‘I expect someone put the idea in her head.’
‘Not guilty, Dave, I wouldn’t dream of discussing your work with your daughter.’
He laughed, an unpleasant sound, and drew on his roll-up. Overtly, a harmless conversation but Dave had a way of turning everything into a battle of wits. Jane found it irritating. Her only aim was that poor Simmy should have a holiday by the sea, a break from Faraday Road. But was that really her aim? These days she noticed every tiny sign – a barely perceptible pause, a cough, the interlocking of fingers – but she was the guilty one, interfering in people’s lives as she attempted to gather what, in all probability, was irrelevant information. So Dave had been at an auction. What auction? She could look it up on her tablet but finding a date and a venue would not prove Dave had been there.
Tossing his roll-up into the gutter, he ran one of his grubby fingers down the grooves in the lamp post. Was there something he wanted? Was he sounding her out? Perhaps he thought she knew something about Simmy. Simmy and Arthur. Teenagers had sex at an earlier age these days, earlier than in her day, but not earlier than Romeo and Juliet. Had Romeo and Juliet slept together? Was it implied in the text? She thought not.
Tricia Tidewell had joined them, holding the baby, but minus the other two. ‘Liam’s gone to a holiday club and Pippa’s at a friend’s house. Hello, Dave, I haven’t seen you for ages, not since ... Terrible, wasn’t it, and poor Jane was the one ... Ian and I had gone out for .’ She seemed incapable of finishing a sentence. ‘We didn’t know him well but he was ...’
‘You’re talking about Noel?’
‘So it’s just you and Ada this morning.’ Jane said. ‘That’ll be nice.’
Tricia gave her a grateful smile. Had she come out of her house, hoping for a friendly chat? If she had, she had chosen the wrong moment. Jane glared at Dave and he grinned back and Tricia brightened visibly.
‘I was talking to Simmy, Dave, and she told me you’re going to Cornwall. How lovely.’
‘We’re not.’
‘Oh, I must have got it wrong. I love Cornwall, don’t you, Jane? Although it does get rather crowded in August. Ian and I had our honeymoon in Mevagissey, do you know it? It was in the spring but it was still quite busy, but I didn’t mind, I like lots of people about, I’m not one for empty spaces. Is “Simmy” short for Simone?’
‘No.’ A shadow crossed Dave’s face. ‘That’s what she was christened. Well, not actually christened.’
Fortunately, Ada put an end to any more, simultaneously pulling her mother’s hair and kicking her in the ribs. ‘I’d better give her a snack. She’s horrible when she’s hungry. Nice to see yo
u Dave. And you Jane.’
‘Oh, Tricia.’ Jane dreaded the reply but she had to ask. ‘You know you said Liam saw someone going into Dave and Gus’ house.’
‘Did he? When?’
‘I’m not sure. I just wondered if he noticed who it was.’
‘Doubt it. He’s only interested in cars. Knows all the different makes. Toyotas, Vauxhalls, Saabs. Ticks them off in a notebook. Good for his writing skill. Is that what you think, Jane? Yes, I thought you would.’
Farther down the road, Gus and the woman from number twenty-two were deep in conversation. Who was she, and why did she have to wear that hideous hat? Not that it had put off Gus. From the look on his face, she could have been his dearest friend.
‘Jane?’
‘Oh, sorry, Dave, did you say something? Even if you don’t want a holiday it would be good for Simmy. Noel’s death was such a shock, the first death of someone she knew well I imagine.’ But even as she spoke, she realised her mistake. ‘What I meant ...’
‘Don’t look like that, I know what you meant. She was only two and a half when her mother died, can’t remember a thing.’
Now was her chance, but from the look on his face, eleven years had done little to soften the blow of his wife’s death. Jane warmed to him a little. His gruff exterior was a defence from pain. She should have realised, should have felt more well-disposed toward him. Had Noel known what happened to his wife and threatened to tell Simmy, and a furious Dave had ...
No. Anxiety about Eddie was making her irrational. Noel’s death had been an accident. Of course it had. Except would he have been silly enough to lean over the balcony and lose his balance? Why take a risk when there was no audience? His leaps in the air, and swinging from the scaffolding had always produced a gratifying response, mostly laughter. But alone in the new loft conversion ...
Jane pictured the fall from two floors up. Landing on Dave’s patio, fatally injured but not quite dead. Pushed. A single whispered word. His last utterance – a plea for her to uncover the culprit responsible. Or to tell the police.
