Talking to the Dead

by Harry Bingham

  Terrorism. Cuts. An argument over education reform. We talk about whether the anchor has had his teeth whitened.

  When Newsnight gets too boring even for us, I roll over and lie on Ed’s chest.

  “If I wanted to go out with you again, would you?”

  He kisses me softly on the forehead. “Probably.”

  I sit up on him. I can feel him getting hard underneath me. I bounce up and down a bit, to get him back for pulling my ears. He holds me so that I can’t do too much damage, but mostly just lets me bounce.

  “I don’t think we should,” I say, “but I like knowing that you wouldn’t necessarily say no.”

  “Not necessarily, no.”

  “Why don’t you ever come round to see me?”

  “I don’t know. Busy, I suppose.”

  That’s no answer, and I escape his grip to give a more vigorous bounce, hard enough to make him wince.

  “Proper answer,” I demand.

  “Okay, then. I think if I came round to see you, we would end up going to bed. We would end up back together.”

  “And you don’t want that?”

  “No, it isn’t that. I’m not sure if it’s what you want. I don’t want to be hanging around waiting for you to make your mind up. Waiting for you to find out who you are.”

  “You think I don’t know?”

  “I’m damn sure you don’t. You’re a work in progress.”

  I think about bouncing up and down some more but decide that he’s right on all counts and that being right doesn’t necessarily require punishment. I give him an affectionate squeeze and slide off him, groping around on the floor for my shoes. “That’s what I like most about you, Edward Saunders. You’re not a work in progress at all. You’re the finished article. Shrink-wrapped and ready to ship.”

  He smiles mildly, watching me get ready to leave. “I’ll take that as a compliment.”

  “It is. From me, it is.”

  I go into the kitchen to find a plastic bag so that I can steal his cheese.

  “What are you doing?”

  “Stealing your cheese.”

  He lets me take it. We kiss each other on the cheek, the way we did when I arrived, but we also say that we’ll see each other again soon, and I think we both mean it. On my way out, I look again at those photos of Maya, and this time I get it. I get what’s been puzzling me about them. I laugh at myself for being an idiot.

  I drive home, staying within the speed limit for a change, and with another wash of rain painting the road black in front of me. I’ve got the Bach cello suites in my CD player, and I play them loud enough that the swish of the wipers doesn’t get in the way. I wish I had farther to drive.

  I get home. No escallonias, but not much to cheer the heart either. It’s very magnolia, my house. Magnolia, white, and stainless steel, and I don’t like any of those things.

  The sextuple April grins down at me as I remember to put the cheese in the fridge. I get a glass of water and sit down opposite her.

  Looking at the pictures of Maya, I finally figured out what was funny about my photos of April. All the ones I had printed off were of her at the crime scene. April with the top of her head missing. April with a smile but no eyes. Six little dead Aprils, and not a single little live one. It took me this long to notice that all my photos were of April dead.

  I grin at myself and feel her grinning with me. Seven grins. I plod upstairs, run a bath, and allow myself a long soak, wondering vaguely whether to take the pictures down, or leave them up and add some of the party dress / beach / toffee apple ones.

  Questions for another time, but I’ll probably stick with the photos I’ve got. I’ve never minded the dead. It’s not them that cause the trouble.

  I wake the wrong side of 6:00 A.M., still far too early but at least I’m expecting it now. I sneak downstairs in my dressing gown, get some tea and some cereal, and come back up to eat it in bed. Then, because the house seems too quiet, I go out to the car, still in my dressing gown, to get the Bach cello CD. I whack it on, loud enough that I can hear it upstairs, and continue my breakfast in bed. Sunday morning bliss, just three hours out of place.

  I replay the conversation with Jackson in my head. He’s right, of course. My suspects are (1) a dead man, and (2) a man who is going to jail anyway. Also, of course, I don’t think that either of them actually killed the Mancinis or Edwards. They’re just involved. That means that, as well as having a dead suspect and an about-to-be-jailed suspect, I’m missing a crime to connect them to. I don’t remember every word of my CID training, but I’m pretty sure that you need a crime before you can start arresting people, alive or dead.

  The trouble is that intuitions like mine are wholly at odds with the way police investigations work. There’s an old joke about an Irish attempt on Everest. It failed because they ran out of scaffolding. Ho, ho. But that’s precisely how we coppers would climb the damn thing. The only difference is that we wouldn’t run out. We’d just keep going, pole after pole, clamp after clamp. Interviews. Statements. DNA tests. Prints. A million bits of data. Thousands of hours of patient, grinding analysis. Remorseless, methodical, inevitable. And one day, as your frozen fingers are hauling up yet another scaffolding board into position, you notice that you’ve run out of mountain. The sunlight is coming at you horizontally. You’ve reached the top.

  That’s how Jackson plans this particular mountain climb, and he’s right enough. He’ll get his killer.

  But will I get mine? I didn’t make any promises to Jackson. When he asked me for an old-fashioned yes, the sort that actually betokens obedience, I’d answered him with a question. The way I see it, that allows me a little wiggle room on the side. And he’s a shrewd old sod. Perhaps he was even happy to leave it that way. In any case, there’s no time like the present.

  No time except for the present, if it comes to that. A frightening thought, if you dwell on it.

  I get dressed fast. My regular casual wear involves a base coat of jeans and T-shirt, plus whatever else the weather or occasion demands. But it’s too hot for jeans today. Upper seventies and rising. So I go for something more summery. A floaty pinky beige skirt and a pistachio-and-coffee striped top. Summer wear. Good-mood wear.

  Downstairs, I take the Bach CD off and va-va-voom across town. Eastern Avenue is almost completely empty, so I get to my destination fast, even without speeding.

  Rhayader Crescent. The teachers, nurses, middle managers, and youngish solicitors are still in bed, or maybe yawning their way through toast, or getting ready for a day of marshaling hyperactive kids. The crooked cop at Number 27 shows no sign of doing anything at all. The Yaris is there. Its hood is cold. No lights in the house. No sign of life.

  The crooked cop at Number 27 is almost certainly snoring away upstairs. A late riser.

  I don’t have a plan, which I see as a positive. Nothing to go wrong. A side passage leads to the back garden, and I go through, if only to feel less conspicuous. A lady in a garden diagonally opposite is hanging out her washing. She spots me but doesn’t say or do anything. No reason why she should. I don’t look much like a burglar, and it’s hardly burglar o’clock. Gulls are circling over Victoria Park, looking for something to do.

  I sit on the back step and wait for the lady to go inside.

  Penry’s keys have been bothering me. His house is L-shaped, with the kitchen extension forming the arm of the L. In the crook of the L is the conservatory. The keys to the conservatory door were visible enough in the house—no reason why not—but they’re equally visible from the garden. A burglar armed with a brick could quite easily knock out a pane of glass, take the keys, let himself in. It’s security 101 and Penry used to be a copper.

  That’s what got me thinking in the first place.

  Now I’m not about to smash any windows, but I’d bet that Penry doesn’t have friends on this street. People to say hi to, perhaps, but not go-down-to-the-pub-with mates. The street is too suburban for that, a bit too wife-and-2.4-children
. So no neighbors who have a spare key.

  Then there’s his kitchen sink. He’s not slovenly, but he’s not organized, not house-proud. He’s a man’s man. Beer cans in the kitchen garbage. More beers down the pub. That sort of man needs either a wife or a spare key. And he doesn’t have a wife.

  The lady opposite goes inside, so I can turn my attention to the back door. The one belonging to the kitchen, not the conservatory.

  I turn the handle, super-gently. It’s locked.

  No flower pots. A couple of bricks and a few rotted lengths of garden timber, but nothing under those. The doorframe’s set into the wall, so nothing concealed on top of it or at the sides. Nada.

  Damn. I feel a brief surge of frustration, but it’s quickly replaced by a sense of confidence. I’m not wrong. I know I’m not. My reading of Penry is correct. There must be a spare key here somewhere. There must.

  Then I realize. The conservatory was the last thing, not the first. Those keys on the doorframe breach security 101, but he hung them at a point when he’d already embezzled so much money he must have known he’d be caught. It was a what-the-fuck? kind of thing, and Penry hadn’t always been that way.

  I turn round and survey the garden. I’m Penry. I’ve just retired from the force. Honorable career, ended by injury. Police pension. Single man. I need a set of keys handy, but I’m not going to be stupid about it. I haven’t even completed the thought experiment before I’m walking over to an old brick-paved area at the back, complete with bench, tottering gazebo, and barbecue. I check the bench, then the barbecue, then the paving area itself. At the side nearest the garden fence, a brick is loose. I tease it out in a crumble of old mortar, and a key winks brassily at me from its nest.

  Front door or back door?

  The key looks like it could fit the back door, so I try it and it works first time. I’m into the kitchen. Still a mess. The mug that I threw into the garbage has been taken out and left on a corner of the sideboard. I drop it back in the garbage. Remind him to be tidier.

  Shoes off and dangling from my hand, I go farther into the house. It’s still early, not yet seven fifteen. No way is Penry an early riser, but I don’t know how lightly he sleeps. I would seriously not enjoy him waking up and finding me here. I’m not feeling frightened exactly, because my head’s a bit too spacey to feel anything as specific as that, but I recognize the symptoms. Heartbeat. Rapid breathing. An overalert jitteriness. Not good.

  I still want to be here, though.

  The conservatory is still empty. I’ve got an impulse to lift the piano lid and thrash out a tune, bring some noise into this place. I don’t, of course. I still can’t see any music, and I’ve got a sneaking feeling that Penry can’t even play the piano. A music room with no music. A conservatory with nothing to conserve.

  The living room looks much the same as it did last time. The information-wanted poster has been folded up and left on the table. I spread it out again to make it easier for him to read and circle the telephone number that people should call if they have information.

  In the corner of the room by the hi-fi, there’s a mobile phone charging up. Ah! Thank you kindly, I don’t mind if I do. I drop the phone in my pocket and look around to see if there’s anything else worth taking. There isn’t. No papers. No diary or Filofax or contacts book. The only desk has nothing much on the top of it—some computer cables, a note dispenser, a mug of pens, some phone directories—and the only drawer is locked.

  There’s probably a key to the drawer somewhere, there are probably more things to find, but I’ve lost my nerve. My fear has finally caught up with me, and I don’t like being here. I don’t want to make a noise and risk waking the beast.

  So I leave again. As fast and quietly as I can. I lock up and leave the key back where I found it. I don’t feel safe again until I’m in my car, and even then I have to drive for ten minutes before I feel safe playing with my new toy. The mobile phone’s got twenty-six numbers in its address book, which I copy out into my notebook. No messages in the in-box or sent items. I try to check voice mails, but it asks me for a password. I try 0000, then 1234, then 9999, and then find myself locked out. Silly me. His date of birth, May 4, 0504, was probably a better bet. And I forgot to take his charger. Never mind. Twenty-six phone numbers is a good haul.

  I drive back home and get myself some peppermint tea. Bach feels too dull for a moment like this, so I replace it with Dido’s No Angel. Not the coolest music choice in the world, but if it’s cool you’re after, then you’re knock-knock-knocking at the wrong door. My maximum ambition is to make it to normal. I jump back into bed, fully clothed except that I take my skirt off first, with Dido hollering away underneath me. You go, girl.

  Twenty-six phone numbers and a whole day to play with them.

  I go for the landlines first. I decide that I’m a flower delivery company sorting out our Monday delivery schedule. I call the first number—a Cardiff one—and get an answering machine. No names. Just “the person you are calling is not available” in a prerecorded voice. Not helpful. I hang up. The second line is just listed as “Jane” in Penry’s phone, but the answering machine message refers to “Jane and Terry.” I make a note, but don’t leave a message.

  Then the third number; a woman picks up. I go through my spiel. Missing address for the delivery tomorrow. I’ve got 22 Richards Court, but there must be a muddle because I’ve got three deliveries booked for that address. The woman buys it and gives me her address, which is in Pontprennau, up by the golf club. I say, “Oh yes, up by the golf club,” and she says, “That’s right, just by the golf club.” Then I ask her to confirm her name, “because we just need to know we’re delivering to the right person.” There’s no logic there at all that I can see, but the woman says, “Yes, of course,” then gives her name as Laura Hargreaves. “Thanks, Laura,” I say. “That’s great. I’ll probably see you tomorrow, if you’re in.”

  “Oh thanks, so much. I love flowers. I wonder who they’re from.”

  “Well, I’m not allowed to tell you that, but it’s a lovely bouquet that they’ve ordered. What’s your favorite color?”

  “Oh, I don’t know. Cream probably, in flowers. I love roses—but I love all flowers, really.”

  I promise her a huge bouquet of cream roses and hang up. I’m enjoying myself now. It’s nice to be able to spread a little joy. I make twenty-three more calls, get through to fourteen people, collect twelve addresses and ten names. I make another round of calls to the numbers where I only got through to voice mails and this time collect one more name and address. I think I’d make a good flower delivery person. I’ve got a lovely telephone manner, even if I do say so myself.

  Underneath me, Dido has run out of song, and anyway I need to go out. I send a batch of texts to the people I didn’t get through to, then tootle over to Sainsbury’s and stock up for the week. I’ve got a theory that if I buy lots of easy-to-cook, healthy food, I’m going to start eating properly. Not quite the homemade tortellini version of proper, but then I’m only a flower delivery girl. I get a few extras, including one of those little potted begonias that come with their own wickerwork Red Riding Hood baskets. It’s a bit twee for what I want, but it’ll have to do.

  I pay up. Tootle home. Put the shopping away. Make some more calls. Prepare a meal for two. It’s a bit hard knowing what to prepare, because I’m not sure when my guest will be arriving and how hungry he’ll be, so I settle for a brunchy bagel, cream cheese, smoked salmon, and OJ spread. Easy to top up with scrambled eggs if needed. Good for any time of day or night if you ask me.

  I sling Lady Gaga on the stereo, think about hoovering, but decide to tough it out for another week. I have no musical taste at all. I never know who I am, so I buy randomly and try different things, wondering if one day I’ll find the real me. Will I know when it happens?

  While I’m waiting for enlightenment, I take Penry’s SIM card out of his phone and drop it into a kettle full of boiling water, then drain the water and pop
the SIM card back in the phone. Penry will want to make good any damage I’m causing, but nobody backs up their phone contacts properly. If I destroy his SIM card, I’ve probably bought myself a little extra room to maneuver.

  With regret, I take my pictures of April off the wall and am annoyed to find that the putty adhesive has left marks wherever it’s been. I pick at the adhesive scabs with my fingernail but already know that I’m going to take no further action.

  Penry arrives at four.

  My name and address are in the phone book, but I’m hardly the only Griffiths in Cardiff and not even the only F. Griffiths. When Penry’s ugly old Yaris pulls up, it’s pretty clear that he isn’t sure he’s got the right address. He probably thinks this bland little house is too upmarket for a humble D.C. I twinkle a wave at him through the window and throw him a reassuring smile.

  At the front door, I tell him to come on in, but he shoulders past me, smoldering with aggression.

  I’ve put his phone out on the living room floor, along with the Red Riding Hood begonia and a little bit of Christmas ribbon. My way of saying thank you. He takes the phone but leaves the plant.

  By this stage, I’m in the kitchen putting the kettle on.

  “What the fuck is this?” he says at the door.

  “I’m not sure. I think you’d call it a brunch, but I suppose it’s more of a brinner now. I wasn’t sure what time you’d be coming. There’s scrambled egg, if you’re hungry.”

  He doesn’t say anything about egg, or whether he’d prefer tea or coffee. I’m guessing coffee, so I make him a brew. I never drink it myself, but I always keep some for visitors—only instant, mind you. I put in four teaspoons of coffee and stir it round. Peppermint tea for me.

  “You know how people who don’t drink coffee always say they love the smell of coffee?” I say.

  Penry doesn’t reply. He still hasn’t moved from the doorway.

  “Well, I don’t. I don’t like the smell or the taste.”