by DH Smith
The best he could come up with for his budget was a four panel oak veneer with a chipboard interior for £150. He’d had to hunt around, finding quickly that Woodford was the wrong area for a cheap door, and driven to Walthamstow to get what he wanted. Buying time was not something the client allowed for, but a builder had to, and it often took longer than you allowed.
Hinges and a stout door post completed his purchase. He’d measured up yesterday and knew the door was touch and go for size. He hoped it didn’t need planing as all his planes were in the summerhouse. He had saws, drills and enough other tools in his van – but no plane. The door would need a couple of coats of paint but he figured he had enough bits and pieces in his lock-up for that.
The door was weighty. Two of the merchant’s men hoisted it on top of his van. It’d be a bastard taking it up the stairs, dragging if need be. He couldn’t imagine the tenant being much help.
Everything except a damned plane.
Pleased, though, with the purchase. An OK door, and he’d pulled a fast one on Joanna. Ward had said no new door, not with the tenant owing money. But Ward’s men had smashed it in, so it was clear enough to Jack who should replace it.
Once inside the van, he phoned Carol.
‘I’ve been quizzed,’ she said after their intros.
‘How was it?’
‘What could I tell ‘em?’
‘About our tryst.’
‘He did ask. More detail than was warranted I thought. But I assume this is not a social call.’
‘I’ve got the door and I’m going to the house.’ He looked at his watch. ‘I’ll be in Leyton in twenty minutes.’
‘I’ll see you there.’
‘One other thing.’
‘What’s that?’ Her voice was wary.
‘Ask if you can bring my planes from the summerhouse.’
‘I’ll try. See you.’
Strictly business, thought Jack. Though you could never be sure with the phone. He wished Joanna was out of the picture. Surely a murdered husband would be enough to occupy her? She’d have a lot to choose from, between undertakers, pathologists and cops. One of them surely could keep her busy.
He’d have to push her away if he was ever to get anywhere with Carol. If she hadn’t completely written him off.
Strictly business then.
Chapter 34
‘Yes, it’s him.’
Two stretcher-bearers, encased in plastic, though dark green from a medical outlet, had brought down Leon Ward and laid him out, still on the stretcher in the hallway, for Joanna to make the official identification.
She walked round the corpse. Then got down on her knees by his head.
‘Please don’t touch, Mrs Ward,’ said Henderson with a hand on her shoulder.
‘I won’t,’ she said.
His head was completely smashed in, like an egg struck with a spoon. Bits of bone were embedded in the jellied, bloody liquid of the brain. Blood was caked in his thinning hair, and lay in hardened drips down one cheek, the other completely clean, though chicken pale. He seemed asleep, all fury leached away with the blood.
He was wearing his dark blue dinner suit, had on his shoes too. Still dressed for the party.
‘If you are absolutely sure,’ said Henderson, ‘would you be kind enough to fill in a form, Mrs Ward.’
‘Certainly.’
He led her into the cloakroom and sat her at the table. The form on a clipboard was short and easy. Henderson handed her a pen. There were a couple of tick box questions: that she had been given sufficient time for the identification and there was light enough for her to see properly.
‘And if you’ll just write in that box, I confirm the deceased is my husband, Leon Ward. Then date and time. And myself and DS Boyd will witness it.’
Joanna did as she was bid and handed it to Henderson. He signed it, and then handed it to Boyd who did the same.
‘I’m sorry about this, Mrs Ward, but it saves a trip to the mortuary. There will of course be an inquest.’
‘I’m grateful to have done it here,’ she said. ‘Why go to the mortuary?’
Outside the room, they could hear the stretcher-bearers giving directions to each other. Henderson closed the door. Joanna shivered, feeling claustrophobic in the small room.
‘When will I be able to get clean clothes?’ she asked. ‘From my bedroom.’
‘In a few hours, Mrs Ward.’
‘He wasn’t killed there,’ she sighed, throwing her hands up, exasperated.
‘How do you know that, Mrs Ward?’
‘By the bedding in the photo you showed me. That was his room.’
‘Ah,’ said Henderson. ‘That’s the main crime scene. We’ll need that room for a few days yet. Your bedroom, I dare say we’ll be finished with late this afternoon.’
‘What do you expect to find there?’
He shrugged. ‘Most likely nothing, but maybe a blood covered rag, a letter that could lead us somewhere. Who knows?’ He chewed his lower lip. ‘I know it’s inconvenient commandeering so much of your house, but the first few hours are the most important if we are to catch the culprit.’
‘I don’t have any choice,’ said Joanna. ‘Do I?’
She was wearing a loose purple cardigan which Donna had loaned her. Hardly high fashion, rather the opposite, making her look rather like a waif and stray – which was much the way she felt. But at least she was no longer on display to the police force and their hangers on.
DS Boyd was jotting in her notebook.
‘Do you mind a few preliminary questions now, Mrs Ward?’
‘Ask,’ she said.
‘Thank you, Mrs Ward.’ After a suitable pause, he said, ‘What was your relationship like with your husband?’
‘Bad. We’d had an argument yesterday afternoon. I’m sure you have heard about it.’
‘Yes,’ said Henderson. ‘From several sources.’
‘He slapped my face,’ she said. ‘I trod on his foot. And we yelled at each other.’
‘We noted the injured toes. Now we know how.’
‘I ruined a good pair of shoes.’
‘We found them,’ said Henderson with a suppressed smile. ‘Tell me, when was the last time you saw Mr Ward?’
She scratched her chin for a second. ‘Maybe eleven o’clock last night. Just a glance across the lounge. He was chatting with some pals, a drink in his hand. I was keeping well out of his sphere. And he, ditto.’
‘Tell us about the evening, Mrs Ward.’
She took a deep breath before commencing the chore.
‘Well, I had friends there, and writers of my fairy books – you know about those?’
‘We’ve noted them.’
‘My secretary, Carol, was there. I spoke to lots of guests, Jack the builder, wives of various people who knew me and Leon. Being the host, I circulated, hello’d people, introduced guests to guests as one does.’
‘We’ve found a guest list I’d like to go over with you later.’
‘Of course.’
‘What time did you leave the party?’
‘Rather early for me,’ she said. ‘I’d drunk too much, eaten too much. All those waitresses flying about filling you up. And then about eleven thirty I was suddenly exhausted. It just hit me. The strain of the party, the row, all the dressing up… I really don’t know why I have parties. And this one, with us both pretending to be the ever-loving couple. It was all too much. So I went up to my bedroom and lay down for a while. I must have fallen asleep because when I woke it was twelve thirty…’
‘Any witnesses?’
‘No idea. I was asleep,’ she said, as if addressing an idiot.
‘And then you went to Jack Bell’s?’
‘By taxi, yes. Too pissed to drive. I’d lost my licence a couple of years ago. Only got it back nine months ago. I wasn’t going there again.’
‘And you didn’t see your husband after 11 pm?’
She shook her head. ‘Not until I saw him laid out
on a stretcher in the hall out there. And for once, not a word to say for himself.’
Chapter 35
Jack waited in the van outside the house. A mixed area, like his own road. Easy to pick out what was what at a glance. The owner occupied houses, you could tell them at once. Smarter, the owners painting and repairing them to keep the value up. There were some roofers up there, two Asian guys, on scaffolding, converting a loft. Adding value to value, like all London housing. And between them, the tenanted properties. A grading of them, some with aspiring tenants, saving for house purchase, others condemned to rent for their lifetime, hoping for a decent landlord, and too often getting the Leon Wards. It was lucrative, too unregulated, the scales weighted heavily in the landlord’s favour. No wonder shady dealers homed in.
He looked at his watch. There was work to do, the door and lock to be put in, but she and he would be together a while, so he might be able to say something in his favour. So maybe wait, talk to her. Make a case for another go. Less than twelve hours ago, they’d been about to go to bed…
And this morning she’d hissed at him as if he were a child molester.
His stomach was buzzing as if full of crawling beetles. How would he begin? Carol had it in her head Joanna only had to beckon and he’d come running. So how could he show her otherwise? If there was an otherwise.
He could lie of course. Alcohol Halt’s mantra was that lies must end in disaster, but then he wasn’t concerned with the end. It was now he wanted. A beginning.
Strong women were his lure. He could not resist them. And now like London buses; one doesn’t come for ages, then two turn up.
Except they weren’t buses. Two, he’d found, didn’t give you a choice of a ride. They said walk, and don’t bother looking back.
Should he take the door upstairs while he was waiting? Get started at least. Look like a workman when she came. Except he’d probably need a plane to get the door to size. He had two perfectly good ones in the summerhouse, now a crime scene. Quite why the cops needed to examine there, he couldn’t fathom, but it meant more than half his tools were off limits. When and if the planes arrived, he could work in the passage upstairs. Harder to plane in, but working outside would mean he’d have to keep carting the door up and down to see if he’d shaved enough off. And it was hefty.
Suppose he promised Carol he’d have nothing further to do with Joanna? She wouldn’t believe him. Which in a way was a relief. One lie he needn’t make. Though he might anyway. He was a rat really, he conceded, when it came to sex. Hormones coursed, gave their orders. His agitation was electricity in a zombie body, going where ordered.
All this waiting. Last night for Joanna. Who’d come too late. If she’d come first, he was sure Joanna would have told Carol to piss off. And they’d have had a wild night of love. Maybe. Such nights often didn’t go to script. But just suppose it had.
That would be that with Carol.
But there had been no love making, wild or otherwise, just a cold night in his van. Which gave him the ghost of a chance.
She arrived, her car homing in on the kerb space behind him. He got out to greet her, still sparking with a little hope. She climbed out of her car, carrying two planes which she handed to him.
‘The summerhouse is no longer a crime scene,’ she said.
‘Thanks,’ he said. ‘I can get on with that job then, when I get back.’
He locked the planes in his van. When he next turned to her, she was standing with a clipboard, eyeing up the house and garden.
‘Yard full of rubbish,’ she said as she jotted. ‘Too few bins, rampant buddleia and fireweed…’
‘Guttering loose,’ added Jack in practical mode, ‘tiles displaced on the roof, cracked window on first floor, brickwork badly needs pointing…’
This was business, as if there had never been intimacy. Two answering machines talking to each other.
‘The gate is missing a hinge, the other broken,’ he went on as they made their way in. ‘Path tiles missing or cracked, boundary wall leaning, cement badly chipped on the front steps, front door needs painting, one glass pane cracked… And that’s just the damned outside.’
‘It’s so depressing,’ she said.
He indicated the doorbells. ‘I don’t know how they’ve got five households in.’
Jack put the key in the lock. She put a hand on his arm.
‘I’m not sure I’ve the stomach for this.’
He touched her hand, she didn’t immediately pull it away, but held it there a second, then gently eased it free.
He said, ‘Whoever murdered Ward could be connected to his houses.’
‘How many more has he got?’
Jack shrugged. ‘One is too many.’
‘Joanna phoned Ward’s office,’ she said. ‘They’re expecting us over. We’ll find out how many and where they are.’
He said, ‘I’m sorry about last night.’
She turned away. ‘Don’t talk about it, please.’
He nodded. And opened the door.
She said, ‘If we are going anywhere, Jack… You can’t ride two horses.’
He wanted to throw his arms round her at the chink of light she’d offered. Instead he said, ‘I know.’ And dared say no more; lies hustling in the wings.
Jack opened the door.
‘Flex frayed in that light,’ he indicated as they moved along, ‘dado rail missing, throw out this lino, paint the hallway, replace the plasterboard in that section of ceiling…’
Cagily, they stumbled into the smell, over the carpet of junk mail, as if into a cavern where wild animals lurked, and onto the stairs.
‘Bannister loose, three posts missing, replace stair carpet…’ He stopped and said, ‘I want to go upstairs first, see Dan.’
‘Dan?’
‘The tenant with the broken door. He’s got things to say.’
She nodded. ‘I’ll come up. It’ll be good to talk to a tenant.’
He continued listing as they climbed the stairs, pointing out loose risers and boards, the electric wire running down the staircase.
‘A fire risk,’ he said, ‘to add to the other fire risks.’
‘How has Ward got away with this place?’ she said.
He shrugged as he continued up the stairs. ‘Too few inspectors, bribery I’d guess, intimidation… It’s a dirty world, this whole scene.’ He turned to her, she was a couple of stairs behind. ‘Ward must have made enemies, and one of them might have…’
‘Killed him,’ she continued for him.
They were on the landing. His botched repair immediately obvious, but it was all he could do for a holding job. A new door was necessary, and he had that now.
He rapped on the makeshift one.
‘Who is it?’ came from inside.
‘It’s me, Jack. The builder.’
‘Wait a sec.’
In a few moments, the door was opened. Dan put his head cautiously round.
‘Who’s she?’
‘She’s OK, Dan. With me.’
‘What’s she doing here?’
‘She just wants to ask you a few questions.’
‘I don’t do questions,’ and he went to close the door, but Jack held it open.
‘Ward’s dead,’ said Jack.
Dan stopped pushing.
‘What? Dead? How do I know he’s dead?’
And he began pushing again.
‘This is all going to stop, Dan,’ said Carol coming to the door, her face close to his in the crack.
‘What’s going to stop?’ The pushing relaxed a little.
‘The intimidation,’ she said, ‘these conditions.’
‘What about his collectors?’
‘It’s all going to stop,’ she said. ‘This is illegal. Ward is dead, and so are his practices. Whatever has been going on stops now.’
‘Says who?’
‘I do.’
‘And who are you?’
‘I work for Mrs Ward. This is all hers now and she wan
ts it cleaned up.’
Does she? thought Jack.
‘But I do need to know what Ward’s been doing, Dan,’ she continued. ‘To put things right. I am one hundred per cent on your side.’
Be on mine, thought Jack.
The door opened.
‘You’d best come in, Miss. And don’t be tricking me, cus I’ll be slipping off a rooftop if you are.’
‘No tricks, Dan. I promise you.’
Carol went in first, Jack followed.
The room had been slightly cleaned up from the day before. There were a few less bottles on the mantelpiece, but a strong smell of cheese and sweat. On the half made bed, on a newspaper, was the food he’d bought for Dan. Half the loaf gone, more of the cheese, the tomatoes though were untouched.
‘Suppose I leave you two here to chat,’ said Jack, ‘and I bring up your new door.’
‘Good idea,’ said Carol. ‘If that’s alright by you, Dan.’
Dan was plainly charmed.
‘You bring the door up, lad. I’ll talk to the young lady.’
Jack left them.
Not unrelieved to be out of the room. It was going relatively well, so why spoil it, he thought as he went down the stairs. Yes, it was business, but the personal was poking through from time to time. And maybe, just maybe, there would be a coming together.
There was hope.
They’d left the front door open. Probably shouldn’t have done, but it gave the hall some natural light and added fresh air to that of the barnyard. He thought of closing it, but no – he needed it open to bring the door in.
He halted by the front door for a few seconds. There’d need to be three trips. Bring the door to the hallway first, then the timber, and lastly his tools. The sun had come out and warmed his face, as if coming up from a year underground. Carol would be catching up on what was going on. She was good with people. He’d known that the instant he first saw her. Her warmth, her strength too.
Don’t push it. Step by step. In the sunshine it seemed so much more likely.
Once out of the gate and on the pavement, he saw his stupidity. The door was gone. The thief, or thieves, had simply unattached his bungees and taken the door off his van. They’d kindly left the timber.
