The Lying Room

by Nicci French

  At last she found it, wrapped in a blue velvet shirt at the bottom of a plastic shopping bag. She unrolled the shirt. Her fingers felt fat and useless. And there it was. The hammer.

  The front door opened and then shut.

  ‘Hello,’ Fletcher called.

  Neve sprang to her feet with the hammer, looking around her wildly. She grabbed a damp towel from Mabel’s floor and wrapped it up, and then gathered up a few random clothes and added them to the bundle.

  ‘Neve?’ Fletcher again.

  She unlocked the door and opened it. ‘On my way,’ she called back.

  She made her way downstairs, clutching the bundle. Fletcher was taking off his coat in the hall.

  ‘Hi,’ he said. His hair was plastered to his skull and his glasses were steamed up but he looked more cheerful than he had done for days. ‘That was a good evening, wasn’t it?’

  ‘I’ll make tea,’ said Neve. ‘And put these things in the wash.’

  She went into the kitchen. What now? She heard Fletcher coming down the hall and she opened the back door and went into the garden. When she opened the hutch, she heard Whisky give a faint squeak. She laid the bundle on the wet ground, unwrapped the hammer and pushed it deep inside the pile of hay. She closed the hutch and went back inside.

  4

  The Dinner Party

  Neve lay in bed in what felt like a fever of racing thoughts, flashes of sleep and a nightmare from which she woke up in a shock, the slow sense of where she was and then more of the torment in her brain.

  Mabel had the bangle. Mabel had the hammer. Mabel had the hammer. Mable had the bangle.

  It felt like the words were being shouted at her. It felt like they were flashing on a screen. They deafened her and they dazzled her. What could it mean? How could she have got them? Her mind was full of questions. Did someone give them to her? Did she get them herself? What had she done with the hammer? Her mind felt choked with the horror of it. And then back into the deranged dreams and the night passed in a muddled blur.

  She didn’t so much wake as find herself staring at the ceiling as the daylight slowly moved across it. She reached for her watch. Ten past seven. She felt a sudden shock at having slept but then remembered it was Saturday. No school. The day when everyone slept in. Fletcher was next to her in the bed, breathing softly in and out.

  Neve got up carefully, trying not to wake him, and walked round to his side of the bed to switch off the radio alarm. She picked out her clothes – old canvas trousers and a rough shirt – and carried them into the bathroom. She showered quickly, hoping she wouldn’t wake anyone in the house, dressed and padded downstairs, softly like a burglar, a shoe in each hand.

  She made coffee and toast and sat at the table. Normally she might have walked out and bought a newspaper and read it with her breakfast. She might have listened to the radio. This morning she just drank her coffee and took one bite of the toast, which tasted like old leather, and stared into space. She had two mugs of coffee and threw the toast in the bin. She thought of the people sleeping in the house and then she thought of Whisky in his hutch out in the garden.

  The hammer.

  She went out into the garden where a light drizzle was falling and picked a handful of dandelion leaves from the lawn, which was in bad need of mowing. She opened the door of the hutch and threw them in. Whisky emerged from the inside of the hutch and began to munch on them. She reached past him and retrieved the hammer from under the straw. She walked back into the kitchen and laid it on the table.

  What should she do?

  Her immediate thought was to dispose of it. Surely that would be easy. She could put it into a litter bin or throw it into some bushes in a park or into a canal. It felt wrong, of course, but she had done so much destruction of evidence. Why not just do a little more? But this was the actual object that was used to kill Saul. Maybe, just maybe, it might be needed. After all, the murderer was still out there. She stared at it. Mabel had taken it. And Mabel had kept it. Why? How? Her mind was a blur. She couldn’t make any sense of it; she didn’t want to.

  The front-door bell rang.

  It was probably the postman. As she got up to answer, the bell rang again. People would be waking up, she thought. She looked at the hammer. What if Mabel came down? She slipped it into her shoulder bag.

  She opened the front door and it wasn’t the postman.

  ‘Mr Hitching,’ she said awkwardly. ‘I mean, inspector.’

  ‘It’s the weekend,’ he said with a smile. ‘I’m Alastair, remember.’

  And indeed he was dressed for the weekend, but even his off-duty clothes had a formality about them, as if they’d been bought from the leisurewear section of a catalogue. He was dressed in pale chinos and a brown suede zip-up jacket and slip-on leather shoes.

  Neve looked at her watch.

  ‘It’s not even nine o’clock,’ she said. ‘And it’s Saturday.’

  ‘I know, I know,’ said Hitching. ‘Can I come in? I don’t want to disturb a family breakfast.’

  ‘Nobody else is up,’ said Neve and led him through to the kitchen.

  While she made a fresh pot of coffee, Hitching sat down at the table. Her shoulder bag was on the table in front of him and he pushed it to one side, out of his way. Neve flinched. Wouldn’t he feel how heavy it was?’

  ‘I was meant to be out on the golf course,’ he said. ‘Have you ever played golf?’

  ‘No,’ said Neve.

  ‘Don’t like the idea of it?’

  ‘Not particularly.’

  ‘A good walk ruined,’ said Hitching cheerfully. ‘According to Mark Twain. It’s always Mark Twain, isn’t it? He probably didn’t really say it. But somebody said it.’

  Neve sat down opposite him and poured coffee out for both of them. ‘I was about to go to my allotment,’ she said. ‘I’ve been neglecting it a bit.’

  ‘Nice,’ said Hitching. ‘It’s what English people do on Saturday morning. Dig the allotment, play golf, wash the car.’

  ‘And yet you’re working,’ said Neve slightly sharply and then immediately regretted it.

  ‘Murder inquiries tend to get in the way of weekends. Ask the wife. Anyway, something came up,’ said Hitching.

  Neve slowly took a sip of her coffee. She felt that it would be natural to ask what it was but she wasn’t sure she wanted to know.

  ‘Sometimes it feels a bit unfair,’ said Hitching. ‘For want of anything better to do, you start investigating the victim. You know, for motives. Why someone might have wanted to kill them.’

  Neve still didn’t reply.

  ‘I spoke to his colleagues. They talk about him being reliable, sensible, charming. People liked him. Of course, he was involved in the acquisition of your company. That must have ruffled a few feathers. But basically he seems to have been a straightforward, honest guy.’ He paused and took a gulp of his coffee. ‘I mean in his business life.’

  Neve couldn’t bear it anymore.

  ‘I’m really sorry,’ she said. ‘I don’t understand why you’re here.’

  He smiled again. ‘You know, it’s funny,’ he said. ‘Whoever I see, they keep saying, talk to Neve Connolly, she’ll know. She’s the one people talk to, she’s the one people confide in.’

  ‘I don’t know why people would say that.’

  ‘Your friend, Renata Searle, said that about you. She said you were like her conscience.’

  ‘When did she say that?’

  Hitching lifted up his left hand to look at his watch. He needed to pull his shirt slightly up his wrist to see it.

  ‘Oh, about forty-five minutes ago.’

  ‘You mean this morning?’

  ‘She called up last night and came in first thing this morning. It turns out that aspects of her statement were incomplete. To put it mildly.’

  Neve felt strangely calm. ‘Yes,’ she said. ‘I know.’

  ‘I know you know,’ said Hitching. ‘You told her to come forward.’

  ‘I didn’t
exactly tell her.’

  ‘It was good advice,’ said Hitching. ‘Very good.’

  ‘Is she in trouble?’

  He sniffed. ‘That remains to be seen. Perverting the course of justice is a serious offence. Judges don’t like it. They don’t like it at all. Something about attacking the basis of the system, that sort of thing. But she did herself a favour by owning up. Of course, it raises as many questions as it answers.’

  They heard footsteps and looked around. Mabel pelted into the kitchen. She was in her pyjama trousers and a ripped tee shirt; she looked like a bony little child. For a moment, Neve felt unable to say anything at all.

  ‘I’m Alastair,’ said Hitching.

  ‘He’s a detective,’ said Neve quickly. Maybe too quickly, she thought. ‘This is Mabel. My daughter.’

  ‘Is it about the murder?’ said Mabel. ‘It is, isn’t it?’

  ‘I just popped in for a chat,’ said Hitching.

  Mabel sat down at the table. Her face looked so pale that there was almost a green-blue tinge to it, and her lips were bloodless.

  ‘Would you like some breakfast?’ Neve asked.

  ‘No, thanks.’

  ‘Or some tea?’

  ‘No, thanks.’

  They sat for a moment in silence.

  ‘Mabel is about to go to university. Next week.’

  ‘It must be a busy time,’ said Hitching.

  ‘Of course,’ said Neve. ‘There’s all sorts of things to do.’

  There was another pause that Neve could feel as if it were toothache, the sort of toothache that spreads right through your head.

  ‘We’ve been spending lots of time together,’ said Mabel. ‘Haven’t we?’ She turned towards Neve and stretched her mouth into a smile. Her pupils were huge. Neve wondered if she was on something.

  ‘Yes,’ she said.

  ‘Going shopping. Things like that. It’s as if we’re catching up.’

  ‘I wouldn’t put it like that,’ said Neve faintly. ‘Although we have been spending time together.’

  ‘We’ve even been working together on the allotment,’ continued Mabel, speaking slowly and deliberately. She hesitated. ‘Digging,’ she added. ‘Watering.’ Neve stared at her but she continued addressing her remarks to Hitching. ‘We went there first thing on Wednesday, almost before it was light, and worked there for hours and hours. Together.’

  Shut up, Neve said silently, frantically to her daughter. Shut up. Don’t answer a question that he hasn’t even asked.

  ‘Really?’ said Hitching. ‘That’s good to hear.’ He smiled again. ‘Your mother was saying that she’d been neglecting the allotment. So it’s nice to know that you’re both tackling it.’

  ‘There’s still lots to do,’ said Mabel. ‘I mean, we did what we could. That Wednesday morning.’

  Neve couldn’t remember when Mabel had last been to the allotment. A year ago at least, and then it was just to pick some blackcurrants. If Hitching asked any question about it, anything at all, Mabel wouldn’t be able to answer.

  He stood up. ‘You’ll miss each other. Still, she’ll be back before you know it.’

  Neve stood up as well, hoping this would encourage him to get out of the house as soon as possible.

  ‘Where’s the allotment?’ he asked her.

  ‘Upper Clapton, by Springfield Park. It only takes about ten minutes to walk there, quicker if I bike.’

  ‘I know it. Lovely spot. I’ll accompany you part of the way: it will do me good to get a bit of fresh air.’

  ‘What about your car?’ asked Neve wildly.

  ‘I parked several streets away. Thought I should stretch my legs.’

  ‘I might pop into the shops on the way.’

  ‘No worries,’ he said cheerfully. He looked across at Mabel. ‘Are you joining your mother later?’

  Mabel looked puzzled.

  ‘What with spending so much time with her,’ Hitching continued.

  ‘Not today.’

  ‘Tell me,’ he said, leaning towards Mabel, smiling. ‘On the allotment, what do—?’

  ‘I’ve got to go now,’ said Neve. ‘Or not at all.’

  ‘Of course. I’m keeping you from your morning. Won’t you need your bag if you’re going to the shops?’

  ‘My bag. Of course. Yes.’

  He picked it up. She held out her hand for it.

  ‘I can carry it for you,’ he said. ‘It’s rather heavy.’

  She tried to smile.

  ‘It’s fine. I’ll take it. I just need to check something – collect something – before we go. If you just give it here.’

  She tugged the bag from his grip and it swung and bumped sharply against her leg. She imagined it tipping, the hammer falling to the floor between the three of them. Out of the corner of her eye, she could see Mabel gnawing at her nails. She practically ran out of the kitchen into the damp little scullery off to one side, pulling the door shut behind her. She stared around then plunged the hammer into the bag full of tangled wires from old appliances that she kept meaning to sort out.

  ‘Sorry,’ she said, going back into the kitchen.

  ‘I’ve been asking Mabel about slugs,’ said Hitching.

  ‘Slugs?’

  ‘The curse of all gardeners,’ said Hitching. ‘Them, and ground elder of course.’

  ‘Ground elder,’ repeated Mabel, as if it was a foreign language.

  ‘I should go,’ said Neve.

  The door swung open and Fletcher stood there, owlishly blinking. Behind him was Connor, just in underpants, pushing something chocolatey into his mouth.

  ‘I slept too late,’ Fletcher said. ‘You should have woken me.’

  ‘This is Inspector Hitching,’ Neve told him. ‘He’s in charge of the investigation into Saul Stevenson’s murder. Connor, what on earth are you eating?’

  ‘Did you know Mr Stevenson?’ asked Hitching.

  ‘No.’

  ‘A Twix,’ said Connor indistinctly. He stared curiously up at Hitching.

  ‘Then don’t. Now, DCI Hitching’s just going and I’m off to the allotment.’

  ‘Are you a gardener too?’ Hitching asked Fletcher. He seemed in no hurry to leave.

  ‘No, that’s just Neve.’

  ‘And Mabel,’ said Hitching.

  ‘Mabel? Keen on gardening? First I’ve heard of it.’

  ‘Yes,’ said Mabel loudly and shrilly. ‘Of course I am.’ She gathered her knees up so she was coiled tightly in her chair. ‘All that fresh air. Nature.’

  She held up her hands with their bitten nails in a gesture that Neve imagined was meant to be one of joy. Fletcher looked dazed and Connor chomped loudly.

  ‘Bye,’ said Neve. She actually placed her hand in the small of Hitching’s back and gave him a sharp push towards the door.

  ‘So,’ said Hitching as they walked down the road together. ‘You’ve been keeping secrets from me.’

  ‘I’m sorry?’

  ‘Your friend Renata and her affair.’

  ‘I didn’t know until yesterday.’ It was a relief to be saying something that was true.

  ‘Really?’

  ‘Really.’

  ‘I would understand if you felt that you couldn’t betray her confidence.’

  ‘But I didn’t know.’

  ‘Not even a suspicion? She’s your close friend, after all.’

  ‘Not even a suspicion.’

  ‘Funny how good people can be at keeping secrets. You’d think she would have had to have told someone.’

  ‘Not me.’

  ‘What about her husband?’

  ‘Charlie? She definitely didn’t tell Charlie.’

  ‘But did he suspect?’

  Neve remembered the look on Charlie’s face at Renata’s dreadful party.

  ‘I don’t think so. Will he have to find out?’

  Hitching stroked the top of his bald head. ‘That depends,’ he said. ‘It would have been much easier if she’d come clean at once. Secrets,’ he rum
inated, looking ahead, walking with long strides. ‘They’re dangerous things, don’t you agree?’

  Neve nodded. She thought of Saul’s body, she thought of the great clean-up she’d done. She thought of Saul’s present to her that was on its way to the flat. Then she thought of the hammer – and of Mabel’s pinched and chalky face.

  ‘Yes,’ she agreed. ‘They are.’

  They reached a junction and Hitching paused. ‘Well,’ he said cheerfully. ‘Much as I’d like to come and see your allotment, this is where we part company. For the time being.’

  Neve watched him walk away, and only when she could no longer see him did she let herself breathe normally. She wanted to sit down somewhere and put her head in her hands. Or lie down. She imagined curling up on the pavement, eyes shut.

  What now? Was she really going to the allotment? The day stretched ahead of her, ugly and full of ambushes. She pictured Mabel’s demolished room, her sour and terrified face. She turned round and walked rapidly back to the house.

  ‘Hello,’ said Fletcher, looking up from his coffee and the newspaper. ‘I thought you were going to the allotment.’

  ‘I was. I am. Where’s Mabel?’

  ‘In her room I think. Why?’

  ‘Never mind.’

  Neve ran up the stairs and banged on Mabel’s door.

  ‘What?’

  ‘It’s me. I want to talk to you.’

  Rory joined Neve on the landing. ‘I’ve got a headache,’ he said.

  ‘I’m so sorry. Mabel!’

  ‘Go away.’

  ‘I’ll get you some paracetamol in a second, Rory. Hang on a second.’ She left her son on the landing and went into her room, took the bangle from the bedside table, and returned to rap on the door once more.

  ‘Go away. I’m busy.’

  ‘You’re coming with me to the allotment, Mabel.’

  ‘I’m fucking not.’

  ‘Open the door now.’

  The door swung open and Mabel glared out of the dank gloom. Neve held up the bangle. ‘Come on,’ she said. ‘I’ll give you five minutes to get dressed.’

  They left the house in silence. Mabel had pulled on some ancient jeans that were ripped at both knees and a baggy yellow sweatshirt with frayed cuffs. She hadn’t brushed her hair and her skin looked pasty. She looked, Neve thought, like someone who’d been sleeping rough.