by Ruth Dugdall
He tried to kiss Mummy but she gave him a shove, “Not while Alice is watching!” He looked at her mother with narrow eyes like the wolf in Little Red Riding Hood and Alice knew he wanted to eat her. He said, “Look, Matty, I’ll give you another chance. But you better not fuck up this time.”
Alice knew it was a naughty word.
Mr Wilding was like the wolf in the story. His teeth were brown and pointed, and he licked his lips like he was hungry. Only he didn’t want to eat Alice. Instead, he looked hungrily at her mother. He brought food too, though not in a basket, and it wasn’t really food but small parcels in white wrappers that her mum took to the toilet. When she came back her eyes were wet like she’d been crying, her face happy at last.
Mummy said thank you to Mr Wilding like she really meant it, not like the way she said it to the landlord when he gave her more time to pay the rent, or to the woman from the benefits office who they visited to beg for money. Alice had to wear a jumper with holes in when they went there, and it was a stinky place, and Mummy would say we’ve no money for food, and then point to Alice saying look at her – she’s only four. If the lady said no, Mummy would say I don’t know how you sleep at night.
Mr Wilding really was a wolf, even if he didn’t have fur. Once, after Mummy had come back from the toilet, and was lying on the bed, her arms crossed over her eyes but her mouth smiling, he leaned over and pretended to kiss her on her shoulder. Mummy pushed him away, laughing, but Alice knew then that she was right. She had seen teeth marks on Mummy’s neck.
Even then, young as I was, I knew love was dangerous.
Twenty-two
Dave Jenkins had only been dead for sixteen days when the management asked for all signs of him to be erased. Krishna Dasi had been longing for a joint all morning but couldn’t see a chance of escaping to the fire exit for a crafty smoke anytime soon. He was normally fairly placid, but the day’s tension was under his skin like steel plates, and he just couldn’t shake free. He knew it wasn’t his job to clear Dave’s desk but he had agreed anyway. Mr Filet had wanted it done, and no-one else had offered. The poor sod had only just been buried. Caroline, one of the admin staff, had wrinkled her nose as if the very thought of touching his things offended her. Krishna couldn’t let one of the women in the office do it. They wouldn’t show proper respect for the dead man, he thought, as he placed the cardboard box on the desk. He’d been putting the job off, but as he was feeling lousy with a summer cold, it seemed the best time. He’d sat opposite Dave’s desk for seven months but had never noticed what was on it. They’d been mates: sharing a joke or two, going for drinks after work together, usually just to the bar opposite for a swift half on a Friday, and then on to Krishna’s place for a smoke and a chat that usually ended up being about religion or the afterlife; Dave was interested in things like that, and Krishna was always up for a debate. Dave would scan Krishna’s flat, picking up the small marble figure of the elephant headed god, Ganesha, or gaze at the picture of the many armed goddess. Dave’s god looked like a man, so he couldn’t get his head round the look of Hindu Gods. Krishna had tried to explain, that the whole point was that gods are divine. “If God simply looks like a man,” Krishna had asked, “wouldn’t that suggest that God isn’t divine at all, but flawed?”
“I think,” said Dave, “that is exactly the point.”
To Krishna this had seemed a bleak and uninspiring view of religion. Depressing, even. And he knew that Dave wasn’t happy, that he was too introspective. But he’d seemed better the month before he died. In the days just prior, he was almost chirpy. And then the news had come. Mr Filet had called them all together. Krishna had listened silently as the other staff, the ones who hardly knew Dave, didn’t even like him, cleared their throats or dabbed their eyes with tissues. Krishna just felt guilty; he should have seen that his mate was on the verge of suicide. The signs had been there, if he’d only noticed them. Maybe he could have helped him to think of another way to deal with whatever was bothering him. Then he’d wondered if that was why Dave had brought up all those conversations about karma and reincarnation. If only Krishna had known what he’d had in mind he would’ve told him that suicide wasn’t the answer. How could the soul progress, when the body had been violated?
The newspapers had said that Dave had taken a fatal overdose, that he’d left a suicide note and his girlfriend had been with him until the end. Krishna hadn’t even known there was a girlfriend. Dave had never mentioned anyone and there was no photo of her on his desk. Just a leather desk tidy, with Safe Harbour inscribed pencils, and a thin laptop computer, the same as his own. There was also a Far Side desk diary, with a cartoon above each month. It was open at June. The month he had died. Time had moved on regardless.
He slid open Dave’s desk drawer. It was tidy, unlike his own, but he saw the same calculator, part of an actuary’s essential kit. More pencils, and a silver sharpener. Technically work items, so Krishna left them. He picked up a box of Nurofen, and a jotter, which he flipped open. Lists of some kind, in Dave’s cramped scrawl, so he put that in the box too. There was an unopened pack of extra strong mints, which Dave had often sucked, always politely offering Krishna one even though in seven months he’d never accepted. Where would all these belongings be sent? Dave had lived alone. His mother had died a long time ago, in a car accident when he was just a boy, and his father passed away last Christmas. Dave had taken compassionate leave to organise the funeral. His father had suffered from Alzheimer’s and had been in a nursing home. Dave said that when the end came it was a relief, but he’d looked tired, and Krishna saw his hands shaking. He’d noticed Dave was overdoing it on the cannabis, but told himself it was none of his business. Everyone makes their own choices in life, and Krishna didn’t believe in interfering. People must choose their own path and live by the outcome.
Krishna opened another drawer and saw a stack of paper, the two files Dave had been working on and a train ticket to Colchester dating back to February. His hand hovered with the used ticket above the bin, then he put it in the box, just in case. Along with the ticket was a postcard. There was no address, no message; maybe it had been bought for the sake of the picture, rather than to send. The picture was of the crucified Jesus. Either side of the cross were two people, a man and a woman, looking up. The man was weeping but the woman – Mary? – was calm. Dave was a lapsed Catholic, but in the few months before his death he said he’d found his faith again, so that must be why he’d kept the postcard in his desk. Also in the drawer was a rosary, which Krishna lifted, feeling the beads with his fingers. Catholicism seemed such a hard religion to him. So concerned with guilt and sin that it could weigh you down.
There was one more thing in the drawer. An envelope, addressed: Robin & Smith. Sounds like a comedy duo, he thought.
The flap was open, and he peered tentatively in, seeing a pile of printed-out emails, on top of which was a yellow post-it note. The telephone number was written in Krishna’s own handwriting. It was the number for the guy who sold drugs, and he remembered only too well giving it to Dave, who wanted a way to get dope, that was all. Krishna wondered if Dave had used too much; excessive cannabis use could make anyone paranoid and depressed and Dave had already had enough going on in his life to bring him down, what with his dad’s death. He peeled the post-it from the paper and screwed it into a tight ball, shoving it in his pocket, wishing he had never given Dave the number.
Krishna didn’t read the emails; he respected Dave’s privacy too much for that and besides there were some things it was best not to know. He pushed the papers back into the envelope and placed it in the box.
Now the desk held nothing to show for Dave’s life, nothing personal. Anybody could have worked there: pencils, paperclips, it just held the usual stuff of office life. At least on his own desk he had a picture of his dad in ivory and gold and his mum, dressed in cherry red, her ears heavy with yellow gold earrings. The photo had been taken at his sister’s wedding, some five years ago now, an
d still no baby. Being a man he was under slightly less pressure to settle down just yet, but loneliness was a heavy price to pay for independence. He also had a picture of Deva, his bull terrier. Dogs could be depended upon. Blowing his nose, he turned on Dave’s computer and waited for Mark from IT to arrive.
Mark, a keen twenty-something with a blonde quiff, seemed to know all the women in the department, and Krishna watched as he took a moment to chat with each of them, a finger hooked in his dark jeans. Then he came to Krishna, still smiling pleasantly. “Alright, mate? Sorry to hear about Dave. Must be a bit of a shock. It won’t take me long to tidy up the computer, then I’ll be out of your way.”
Mark logged on to Dave’s computer using his system password, and brought the screen to life. The company logo on the screen saver, identical to his own, was of two men in profile shaking hands, one on a boat, one on the quayside. The tagline said, ‘Safe Harbour Insurance. You’re in good hands.’
Krishna watched as Mark saved various files onto a disk with speedy efficiency, recognising file names and client headers. He saw the icon for the office manual, a generic file that held such information as how much money could be claimed for out-of-hours meals, maternity benefits and also the policies of the company, including equal opportunities. Are we equal, though, he wondered. He’d certainly never felt it, and knew that any mistake he made would be taken more seriously than those made by his white colleagues. As one of the few black people working for Safe Harbour he was regarded with a certain amount of suspicion. It wasn’t just after 9/11 either, though since then he’d been mistaken for a Muslim on several occasions. At university he’d always been on the edge of the group. That was when he started smoking dope, to relax, but also because it was what the other students did. He wanted to fit in. That was the problem, his parents thought. Why he’d never met a nice Hindu girl and settled down. Any phone call ended with them telling him he was too British. He felt like he couldn’t win.
“Nearly done, mate,” said Mark, not looking up from the screen. Then, in surprise, “Hello. What’s this?” Krishna looked over his shoulder, where the curser flashed over a file named Robin & Smith.
“Sound familiar to you? Is it a client?” When Krishna remained silent, thinking of the envelope in the box, he said, “I’ll open it up, and then we’ll decide whether to save or ditch it.” He double clicked and the file opened. Mark had moved aside and busied himself with some paperwork.
It took just moments for Krishna to realise that this file was only two lines long:
I haven’t kept a journal before, so you’ll have to bear with me. Writing’s not exactly my strong point but I want you to understand.
Krishna must have made a noise because Mark looked up from his papers. “Everything alright, mate?”
“Yeah, it’s just an unfinished report. Nothing important. Delete it.”
And, turning back to the keyboard, with a single press of a button, Mark deleted the file.
Krishna sat back at his desk, trying not to think of what he had just done. He ignored Mark tapping on the keyboard across from him, picked up his pencil, and immersed himself in numbers.
A female voice roused him. “Can I get you a coffee?” Caroline from Accounts was standing over Mark, batting her eyelashes at him.
“Cheers, Caz. Milk and two, please.”
Caroline glanced over at Krishna, and for a surprised second he thought she was also going to offer to get him a drink. She had done her best to ignore him since he had declined to join her on a trip to the cinema a few weeks ago. She held up a small, brown package. “This was in the post for you. Whoever sent it forgot to use stamps, so it’s been sitting at the sorting office, waiting to be picked up. I hope it wasn’t urgent.”
She threw it on the desk and he saw that the package was marked Private and Confidential. The seal looked as though it had been undone, and then re-sealed as it was uneven and coming loose at the ends. After peeling back the flap, he reached in and felt the shape, something like a pack of gum. Pulling it out he saw it wasn’t gum but a computer memory stick. Wrapped around the stick was a letter, folded in two. Opening it, he saw familiar handwriting. He looked up, expecting Caroline and Mark to be staring at him but she had gone and Mark was still tapping away, oblivious to the fact that Krishna had just received a letter from a dead man.
June 16th
Krish,
I know you’ll look after this. It’s important. Sometimes things don’t work out as we planned, as you and I both know. After all, we deal in improbabilities. By the time you get this I’ll be long gone, but I want to travel light. Keep this safe for me.
I hope to see you again, either here or in another life.
Dave
Krishna slid the USB stick into his computer. If he’d been stunned to read the letter, he was even more freaked out now. He felt like a ghost had touched him, had seen him telling Mark to delete the file on the computer. The title that flashed up on his screen was Robin & Smith.
“There. All finished. I’ll be out of your way now,” said Mark.
“Thanks.”
“No probs, mate. When the police get here, can you tell them I’ve got all the files on a USB for them?”
“Police?” Krishna said, cautiously.
“Yeah. They’re coming to take the computer, check out the workstation. It’s routine, apparently, with a suspicious death. I guess they’ll want to interview you.”
Krishna felt heat rise under his collar. He removed the memory stick from his laptop, and picked up the envelope from the box. He tucked them both into his jacket pocket along with the screwed-up yellow post-it note with the drug dealer’s number.
Detective Inspector Stephen West looked Krishna over, a swift appraisal and dismissal. Krishna felt tense, his shoulders stiffened under his shirt.
“So, you knew him well?” demanded the detective.
Krishna was unable to meet the glowering gaze. “Not that well. We just worked together.”
The man was regarding Krishna as if he were stupid. “Worked in the same office, just yards across from each other, five days a week? You knew him well, all right. Friends?”
“Not friends, exactly,” said Krishna, then, feeling the end of the stick in his pocket, “I mean, I liked him. We got on. We went for drinks after work, that kind of thing. We had a laugh; he was a good bloke.”
The detective looked as if he never had a laugh. Shifting in his seat, Krishna thought of the stick in his jacket, the diary that he had not yet read. He wished Dave had been more explicit in his letter. Had he meant Krishna to give the USB stick to the police? The fact that he couldn’t ask Dave was an unexpected weight to him. He hadn’t realised how much Dave’s regular presence across the desk each day was part of his life. Maybe he should just hand over the stick, the envelope containing the emails, and be done with it. But he couldn’t. He didn’t know what was in the file entitled Robin & Smith, but what if it referred to Krishna using drugs, giving Dave the dealer’s number? With his own criminal record for drugs, he just couldn’t risk that.
The detective was standing over him like it was his fault Dave was dead. Like he could have prevented it. Dave had sent the diary to Krishna for a reason. He had trusted him. And Krishna did not trust DCI West.
“So, what are you looking for?” asked Krishna, cautiously.
“For evidence, lad. Anything to shed some light on this fruitcake’s motive. It’s a strange one, that’s a fact. Not like any suicide I’ve worked on before.”
“But it was suicide?” Krishna asked, still struggling to get his head around it.
“Drug overdose.”
Krishna thought of the screwed up note in his jacket. Was this his fault?
West brought his face to Krishna’s level, both hands on the desk, “Between you, me and the gatepost, there’s something about this whole case that stinks. The girlfriend is saying he wanted to die, but why involve her? I mean, what was to stop him offing himself on his tod, like any regul
ar nut who wanted to do himself in? Why would he want to die? Did he seem depressed to you?”
“No.” Krishna lied with conviction. He’d known Dave wasn’t sleeping; it’s hard to hide fatigue when you work opposite someone. But he hadn’t thought Dave would kill himself. That last month he had been more cheerful than he had been for a long time.
“And,” continued the detective, with quiet intensity, “what kind of sicko actually wants to be eaten?”
Krishna swallowed hard. He’d heard some rumours about this, from office gossip, but deliberately avoided newspaper and TV reports. “She ate him?”
“Not all of him,” said West, straightening up. He shoved his hand in his pocket and scratched his testicles. “What I’m saying is, if some sadist wants his girlfriend to watch him die for some twisted kick, I ain’t gonna weep over it. In fact, it’s none of my business. I just wish he’d found a way that didn’t waste so much police time.” Then his face straightened, and his eyes narrowed. “But if this woman didn’t just watch. If he didn’t want to die, well, that’s murder. And that is my business.”
