by Mark Timlin
When she hung up, she informed me we were going to lunch with Fiona at a Mexican restaurant off Shaftesbury Avenue. I went and checked the Alka-Seltzer situation.
Fiona picked us up in the Passat about twelve. She was totally in love with the thing, and wouldn’t go in anything else. She showed off at every set of lights, burning off everything else on the road. If you get what I mean. All the boy racers tried to take her on, but they might as well have stayed in bed. With her window wound down and her long black hair flying in the breeze, they didn’t stand a chance.
We were parked and sitting outside a boozer in one of the tiny streets on the edge of Soho, me with my first overpriced imported lager of the day in front of me, by twelve twenty-five.
It was just as well I hadn’t driven as I got a bit Brahmsed on Margaritas again at lunch. Over the coffee Judith informed me she was spending the whole of the next day and night with Fiona. Shopping, then a sort of pyjama party at Fiona’s flat. It was going to be all girls together. That suited me down to the ground. I had other fish to fry.
‘Fine,’ I said to Judith. ‘I’ll get you some cash on the way home. I’m not going to have Fiona spending all her pennies on you.’
Fiona pulled a face. So did Judith.
‘What are you going to do, Daddy?’ asked Judith.
‘I’ll find something to occupy the time, Princess.’
A slow drive out in the country in the direction of East Grinstead, I thought.
‘I’ve got a shoot early Tuesday,’ said Fiona. ‘Can you come round for Judith?’
‘What time?’
‘I’ve got to be out by seven.’
‘No problem.’
‘I’ll cook you breakfast,’ said Judith.
‘Suits me. But you’d better get something in. Last time I was round there all I got was cold pizza.’
Fiona pulled another face. It was almost like old times. Almost, but not quite.
We went on the river in the afternoon. It was warm and pleasant, and I was asleep before we got to Chelsea Harbour. When the cruise was over, Fiona took us back to mine, and we played Trivial Pursuit, and let Judith win, and got a take-out pizza and a video. Fiona went home about eleven and promised to pick up Judith the next morning at ten.
She was as good as her word and turned up in her new car right on the dot. I kissed them both goodbye. Told them I hoped they had a good time and didn’t spend too much of my money, and that I’d see them both early the next day.
After they were safely away, I got into the car and dug my book of maps out of the glove compartment. I found the village near Kellerman’s cottage right away. I guessed it would take about ninety minutes to get there.
I’d guessed right. I followed Natalie’s instructions after I came off the A22 at East Grinstead, and found the place easily.
The cottage was down a secluded lane off the B2110, a quiet road between Forest Row and Hartfield on the edge of the Ashdown Forest.
It was surrounded by a picket fence that had once been white, next to a field that had once been part of an orchard. In the field, stumpy trees were trying hard to grow stunted fruit but they were fighting a losing battle against what looked like a generation of neglect.
I parked the car out of sight of the road. There was a light breeze and clouds moved across the face of the sun, making the day alternately bright and dark. The cottage looked desolate enough in the sunshine but, when the sun disappeared and the breeze blew cold, it looked like a place I’d sooner be leaving rather than arriving at. The front path was thick with old leaves and bits of branches from last winter’s storms.
I pushed open the gate and walked up to the porch. The windows were filthy and part of the guttering under the roof at one side of the house had collapsed, and the brick was stained green with rainwater. I unlocked the front door and pushed it open. It caught on a mountain of mail, and I pushed hard, and squeezed through the gap, and shut the door behind me.
The house was deadly silent. No clock ticking. No sound of traffic from outside. No birds in the trees in the field, not even an aeroplane in the sky. Silence filled the hall and I could almost hear my own heart beating. I knelt down and collected the letters into a big pile and went through them. The earliest postmark I could find was the previous February, which fitted. There was nothing addressed to David Kellerman. Anything that wasn’t addressed to ‘The Occupier’ was addressed to Donald King. David Kellerman. Donald King. D. K. The same initials. The oldest trick in the book.
But why did he need a fake name if all he was doing was leaving the family home and setting up a love nest with his girlfriend? I was beginning to think that Robber, for all his shortcomings, had been right. He was an old thief taker after all. When he’d said that Kellerman was dirty, it looked like he’d been right. And I remembered that he’d said that James Webb was dirty too.
Amongst the mail were poll tax demands, telephone bills from blue through red, and a card saying that the phone would be cut off if the bill wasn’t paid. That was dated the previous June. There were also demands from the electricity company. When I tried the light switch in the hall, the power was off.
I went through the house from top to bottom. The hallway had two inside doors, and a staircase going upwards. The door on the left led to a kitchen. It was tidy but smelled stale and there was dust on all the surfaces. The sink was dry and empty. There was a half glass door leading on to a path at the side of the house where the dustbins were kept. It was locked and the key was missing. Another door led down into the cellar. It was pitch dark inside, and I went out to the car and got my flashlight.
I shone it into the cellar, down a flight of five or six wooden steps. The cellar ran the whole length and width of the house and looked empty. I didn’t go down. I turned off the flashlight and went back into the hall, and towards the door at the end. It opened into a living room. The room was furnished with a comfortable-looking three-piece suite, a dining table, four upright chairs, a low coffee table between the sofa and an open fireplace of red brick which about filled the wall on my right. The fireplace was empty except for cold ashes.
The wall opposite the fireplace was lined with bookcases. There were a few books on the shelves. Ruth Rendell. Agatha Christie. Jilly Cooper. On the middle shelf was the phone. It was dead. Next to it was a tray loaded with bottles of spirits and dusty glasses and an empty ice bucket. Opposite me, behind long curtains, were French windows leading on to a crazy paved rectangle with tufts of tough-looking crab grass sprouting through the cement between the paving stones. Encroaching on to the patio was the wilderness that had probably once been a neat back garden. Now the lawn and flower beds had run wild.
I went upstairs. There was a landing at the top. Again, there were two closed doors. The one at the head of the stairs led into the bathroom, and the other into the only bedroom. I searched the bedroom first. There was a large double bed, neatly made. Two bedside cabinets, a free-standing wardrobe, a chest of drawers, a dressing table with triple mirrors, a couple of chairs, and that was it. But it was expensive stuff and all new. I suppose Kellerman got a discount, being sort of in the trade.
In the ceiling was a trap door. I pulled one of the chairs underneath it, and pushed the door up and open. There was a ladder in the loft and I tugged it down, got off the chair and climbed up the ladder, and stuck my head through the trap. Just roof space. Empty. I could see pinpricks of light through the roof tiles. It looked filthy, so I left it and climbed down.
I went through everything in the bedroom. In the wardrobe a woollen dress, size twelve, from Fenwick’s; a man’s suit, size 40 regular. A blue overcoat, same size. Both with Harrods labels. Three white shirts on hangers and a floral tie looped around a coat hanger. In the bottom of the wardrobe was a pair of Paul Smith loafers, size nine. I went through the pockets of the clothes. Empty. The chest of drawers held a couple of men’s sweaters and some underwear, cotton from Jermyn Street. There was women’s underwear, too. Sexy, from Bond Street. I though
t about Natalie Hooper sitting in her wheelchair back in her bungalow in Epsom, and I must admit I did wonder.
The dressing table held make up, skin cleanser, perfume, tissues, cotton wool balls, earrings and a silver bracelet. Just what you’d expect if you’d ever lived with a woman. All the cosmetics were top of the range. The perfume Christian Dior and Chanel. The bedside cabinets were empty except for another Agatha Christie paperback in one drawer. I checked the carpet. Good quality Wilton, beautifully fitted. I tore it up around the edges. Nothing. Finally I looked underneath the mattress. Not even a bed bug.
I went along the hall to the bathroom. It smelled stale, like the kitchen. The flannels and towels were bone dry and there were spiders in the bath. I checked the medicine cabinet. The usual. Two dry toothbrushes in a glass. Toothpaste, shampoo, mouthwash, soap, aspirin. I pulled the siding away from the bath. Just a dead mouse. I left it in peace. I pulled up the carpet on the landing, stairs and in the hall. Zip.
I went back into the kitchen and checked the drawers there. Nothing special. I went through the food cartons and emptied the flour and sugar jars and checked the fridge. Something had gone badly off. I checked the salad crisper and the ice compartment. Just the remains of a lettuce that had gone beyond vegetable state, and a dry ice tray.
This time I went down into the cellar. As I had thought, it was totally empty. The floor was solid concrete.
I was getting bored.
I went back into the sitting room and searched it, and pulled up the carpet there too. Nothing again. I unbolted the French windows and went into the garden. I found a path through the wilderness that I followed until I came to a large shed. The door was unlocked. I went inside and got a bit lucky. The shed held a small generator. It was switched off. Next to it was a five-gallon drum of petrol.
I checked the generator’s tank. It was almost full. I found the ignition and started it up. Now, at least, there should be light in the cottage.
The walls of the shed were lined with shelves stacked with boxes of nuts and bolts and nails and screws separated by size. There were two power drills, and enough tools to stock Halford’s, all lightly oiled and gleaming, through a layer of dust, on neatly labelled hooks screwed into the walls. It was lucky the place hadn’t been robbed in all the time it had stood empty. Apart from the generator the shed gave me nothing.
I went back out into the garden and smoked a cigarette and thought a bit. Natalie had told me the deeds to the house were in the house, but they weren’t. At least, not as far as I could see, and I’d searched pretty thoroughly. And believe me I’ve had practice. Normally I’d say they weren’t there, and leave it at that. But there weren’t any papers at all. Nothing. Now I knew Kellerman had been leading some sort of weird double existence so there had to be something, somewhere, that referred to the Donald King part of his life that he couldn’t take home or leave at his office. And obviously nothing had turned up yet.
The police must have gone through everything that they could get their hands on with the proverbial fine toothcomb. There was obviously no documentation elsewhere that the cottage existed or else someone would have turned up before me. Plus the house in Crown Point had been broken into and searched thoroughly by some third party long after the murder had taken place and the police had left. So someone else knew, or thought they knew, that there was something to find. The people who had been following me obviously, the people who had killed McKilkenney. But what? Not just the deeds to the cottage surely? Why would anyone be bothered with them? The place belonged to James Webb free and clear as far as I could see, even if Kellerman was calling himself Father Christmas. And it was clear Webb knew nothing about it or else he’d have come forward with a claim.
There had to be something here. Unless Kellerman had taken the papers outside and buried them, or he’d rented a safety deposit box, or lodged them at some tame solicitor under his fake name, they were inside. I lit another cigarette and looked back at the house. It sat four square and mysterious. There was something there, I was sure of it. There just had to be.
I went back for a closer look at the attic and cellar. I went upstairs again, removed my jacket and climbed the ladder once more. The roof space was totally empty, and the insulation between the rafters was old and hadn’t been disturbed for years. I went back down the ladder, collected my jacket and returned to the kitchen. I was thirsty. I opened the fridge, which had started working again, and found a can of diet Pepsi in the cooler. I opened the top and took a swallow, then went into the sitting room and topped up the can from the bottle of vodka on the bookcase. I smoked another cigarette and finished the can. It was well after three by the time I went down to the cellar again.
In the harsh electric light it looked even emptier than before, if that makes sense. The walls were made of white plaster, out of which the brick legs of the foundations protruded about four inches, so the walls looked something like a Zebra crossing on its edge. Three or four feet of grubby white, then two feet of dark brick, then white again, all round the room. I went round with the end of my torch, tapping all the walls. They looked and felt solid enough, so that was that. No joy.
I went back upstairs again and sat with the bottle of vodka and a lot of bad thoughts. I was tired and dirty and it seemed like I’d wasted another day. I looked out of the filthy windows and watched the afternoon gradually slide into evening. Eventually I finished what was left of the bottle and tossed it into the fireplace with the rest of the ashes.
Then I left. Locked up the cottage and drove back to town. I went straight to my local bar and took a chance on a bowl of chilli washed down with a few beers.
Before I knew it, it was closing time and I got swept out with the rest of the riff-raff.
By the time I got home it was nearly midnight. Cat was waiting on the front step and gave me a good telling off for abandoning him for the day. I let him in, fed him, and called Fiona. She answered right away.
It was good to hear her voice. And Judith’s. Like life could be normal, and not everyone was bent. I told Judith she should have been in bed long ago.
She said that she was. Watching TV. I was too pleased to hear her to argue. She told me she’d had a great day out with Fiona. I told her I was glad. I didn’t tell her where I’d been. Then I told her that I loved her, wished her good night, and sent my love to Fiona.
Judith wished me good night too, and told me that she loved me and would have my breakfast ready at seven sharp. We said goodbye and I waited for her to hang up before I did. It’s something that I do.
By that time my head was aching like a bastard. I undressed and got into bed. I lay there for an hour or more, thinking and making my headache worse. I knew there was something wrong with that cottage, but I couldn’t figure out what it was. I suppose eventually I fell asleep.
26
I wasn’t asleep long. The illuminated digital numbers on my bedside clock read 5.35 when I woke up. At least my headache had gone.
I got up and showered. Cat was hungry again. In a lot of ways he reminded me of Judith. I fed the little fucker and kicked him out into the street. Then I went back upstairs and made a mug of Typhoo with too much sugar that I drank while I was getting dressed. I put on a denim shirt, jeans and my favourite scuffed-up pair of old Doc Marten’s eleven holers. By that time it was past six and I went down to the car and took a slow drive to The Oval where I had been assured breakfast would be waiting. I smoked the first cigarette of the day as I steered through the quiet streets. But all the time I was thinking about the cottage in East Grinstead and the secrets I knew it hid.
Judith answered the flat door and I could smell bacon cooking as I followed her upstairs. Fiona must have taken my advice and got some supplies in. We went straight into the kitchen. Fiona wasn’t about.
‘I knew you’d be early,’ said Judith. ‘So I was too.’
‘Good girl,’ I said. ‘Been having fun?’
‘Terrific,’ she replied. ‘But I haven’t spent much mone
y.’
‘I’m glad to hear it.’
‘Yet.’
Fiona must have been giving her a few tips.
Then I heard footsteps on the stairs and Fiona came into the kitchen, dressed and ready to go out to work.
It never ceased to amaze me that, when she went out to one of her shoots, she looked positively plain. If she ever could. Her hair was up in big bendy rollers under a scarf and her face was totally devoid of make up. She was bundled up in a huge leather flying jacket and leggings.
‘Hi, beautiful,’ I said.
‘Don’t. I look like a fright.’
‘You look OK to me. Good enough to eat, almost.’
‘Better than my bacon?’ interrupted Judith.
‘Nothing looks better than that.’
‘Do you want anything, Fiona?’ asked the chef.
‘Oh, no. It’s too early. I’d better go.’
‘No coffee?’ asked Judith solicitously.
‘No. I’ll puke if I do. I’ll feel better when I get some air.’ She kissed us both and left. ‘I’ll be back by lunchtime,’ she said. ‘Give me a ring and we’ll do something.’
‘Good,’ said Judith. I flipped her a wave and Fiona left.
Judith dished up the sandwiches and tea.
‘So what are we going to do this morning, kid?’ I asked.
‘I think we should stop calling me kid for a start,’ she replied tartly.
I looked at her. She reminded me of her mother when we first met. When I fell for her. ‘OK,’ I said. ‘We’ll knock the “kid” bit on the head. So what shall we do?’
‘Can we go shopping?’
‘Sure. Where? The West End?’
‘How about somewhere around here? I was in the West End yesterday.’
‘What do you want to buy?’
