I thought about his words and realised sex was the last thing on my mind. Since our evening meal, Michael and I had been talking about murder, and I felt too strung up to think about lovemaking. I guessed Michael was excited about being involved in such an important investigation; it was his occupation, after all, but I had heard enough for one night. I knew he could become obsessed when on a case like this, as he didn’t often get the opportunity, but the subject matter made me feel squeamish and edgy. Somehow, as I stared up into his eyes, I knew he wouldn’t be happy with just a cuddle, either. All the same, I gently pushed my hands against his chest.
“Actually, I’d rather not if you don’t mind.”
His eyes narrowed and he frowned. I blinked in surprise at the intensity of his gaze. He looked angry. “What’s up? What have I said wrong?”
“Nothing…honestly. I’m sorry, Michael. I know we haven’t seen each other for a while, but it’s been a harrowing day, what with the pile up on the A3, and I’ve got a foul headache. I’d rather just say goodnight and go to bed with a couple of paracetamol, if you don’t mind.”
His face fell, and I guessed he was instantly contrite. The gentle tone of his voice confirmed it.
“Oh, sweetheart, I’m sorry, I’m being bloody insensitive. You know how I get when I’m into something interesting. I just want to help catch the guy. I guess you must be exhausted after a day like yours.” He held me at arm’s length and smiled. “We’ll call it a night and get together later in the week. I’m not sure what my duty shifts are yet, but I’m likely to be busy. I’ll ring you ASAP.”
He held me close to him and kissed me quite gently as if to make up for being tactless. He pulled a lock of my brown curls between his fingers. “Don’t forget. The killer has picked only dark-haired women as his victims. Be vigilant. Stay away from quiet places and especially at night. Make sure you walk on well-lit roads and keep away from remote paths. It should be okay for a while, but as I said before, we have no real idea when or where he’ll strike again.”
Chapter Seven - Ella
Next day dawned bright and sparkling—one of those gorgeous early autumnal days which occur so infrequently. The trees I could see from my window were turning early, and I could see copper, gold, red, russet and varying tones of, yellow, purple, black, orange, pink, magenta, blue and brown. The overall result this year was stunning.
I slept deeply, and it was with a lighter heart that I picked through my wardrobe looking for some old clothes in which to paint. After pulling on tatty jeans and a ten-year-old sweater that really needed chucking out, I rummaged in the back of my wardrobe for a pair of antiquated trainers.
The first room I wanted to change and put my mark on was the lounge. The whole apartment had been painted in an eggshell colour originally, and I wanted something bold on at least two of the walls. I spent hours poring over colour charts and eventually decided on pumpkin, rust and maple red. I planned on adding a couple of antique leather chairs to go with my two settees and thought the room large enough to take the added colour. Plus a desk. I had to have a handsome desk.
I made tea and toast, and munched while I moved furniture around or draped dust-cloths over the heavier pieces. Within an hour, I was completely absorbed in my task, the radio on low while I hummed along to some classic old favourites. I remembered the writer next door and his wish for peace and quiet. My mind made up stories about him. First, I imagined someone old and crusty, tapping away on a laptop, writing about somewhere ancient I would never visit; Ulaanbaatar in Outer Mongolia or some godforsaken wet island in the middle of the Atlantic. There again, I could have been doing him an injustice, as he could have been quite young: an up-and-coming travel writer working for a newspaper, writing about new Russia or somewhere barely heard of in Africa. My mind wandered as I covered the walls in colour. A Paige and Plant number came on—Kashmir—and I turned up the volume, as I loved this golden oldie.
I stood up straight, stretched my back and then spent a minute admiring my work. I had been at it all morning and it was time for a break. I removed my painting overalls and draped them over the stepladder in the middle of the room. Just as I was about to look round for the paint-roller tray, my doorbell went, causing me to jump and turn round in agitation. I didn’t want to be disturbed; it was probably Mum inviting me downstairs for a sandwich or my new neighbour about to complain. As I swung round, my hip caught the tray perched on one of the steps of the ladder and sent it flying.
I went to grab it, missed and then stood in horror as I watched my gorgeous russet egg shell splatter across the wall I was planning to leave off-white, and my jeans were drenched right down to my trainers. And the doorbell went again. Damn, damn, damn! Oh, crap! Go away!
“Hang on!” I yelled.
I didn’t know what to do first. I grabbed one of the dust sheets and threw it over the paint on the floor. Thankfully, I had rolled up the rug and put it in my second bedroom before starting. I then removed my shoes, wiped my hands as clean as I could on a rag and hopped over the worst of the spilt mess before walking out to the hall.
I threw back the door. “Mum! You do pick your moments…” My voice dried up.
“No, not your mother, but I too seem to have called at an inopportune moment.”
My caller definitely wasn’t Mum. I found myself gawping at someone younger and definitely not female. And to quote a much over-used cliché, although older than me, he was tall, dark and handsome. And by the twinkle in his eye, was finding it hard not to laugh. Annoyed, I brushed my hair out of my eyes. For some reason, the band holding my unruly locks at bay had slithered free, and tresses were escaping all over the place. Too late, I remembered the paint on my hands and now, no doubt on my nose, hair and cheek.
“Bugger!” I exclaimed in an unladylike voice.
“Bugger, indeed. Here, let me help. Keep still or you’ll make things worse.” The stranger was shaking with laughter by then. Bemused, I stood by while he gathered up my long hair and twisted the band around it. “Now, judging by the look of things, you’ve had an accident.”
Without waiting for an answer he pushed past me, following the direction of—to my horror—a set of my russet-coloured footprints going from the front doorway back into the lounge. Within seconds, he had taken control, demanded to know where I kept my cleaning things, filled a bowl with warm soapy water and grabbed the floor cloth from under the kitchen sink. He eyed my paint-sopping clothes and grinned.
“I’m Tim, by the way. Your new neighbour? Can I suggest you get out of those wet things as soon as possible, and then we can put them in the washing machine? If we’re quick the paint will come out in a warm wash. Go on. I’ll deal with this little lot.”
I stood still on the spot, feeling my face grow red with embarrassment, and at the same time, wondering how he had the nerve to walk in and take charge. He gave me a slight shake of the head and bent down to rub at the paint. All I could think of, was how did he know warm water was needed to remove paint? And why was I letting a complete stranger have the run of my flat? Michael would have had a field day if he got wind of it.
Tim glanced up. “Ella, isn’t it? Your mother told me. I know what you’re thinking…I’m a complete stranger and in your house, but the sooner you get changed, the sooner you can join her for lunch. Please. I’m fine here, and I promise to get this cleared up while you take a shower. It’s all right. Trust me.”
And the oddest thing of all was…I did as I was told.
Chapter Eight - Ella
All through lunch, I studied the newcomer. I recalled Mum told me his full name was Timothy Coleman, but it was unfamiliar, and I hadn’t had either the time or, so far, the inclination to look him up on the internet.
After my altercation with the paint pot, I showered and changed in record time. Despite my new neighbour’s words of reassurance, I ensured the bathroom door was locked and kept my mobile phone with me. When I emerged looking and, no doubt, smelling better, I was amazed to find he had
cleaned up so well. There wasn’t a trace of paint on either the floor or the off-white wall.
“Wow! That’s incredible. How on earth did you manage to get it all off?”
He shrugged, gave me a quick appraising look up and down, and pointed in the direction of the kitchen. “Experience. I’ve put the sheet to soak in a bucket, but you’d better load your clothes into the washer if you want to save them.”
I shoved them in the machine, added a liberal dose of powder and set the dials for the required wash. “They’re old clothes but useful for decorating,” I said, feeling self-conscious. Turning to face him, I suddenly wondered why he had come to my apartment.
“Um, why are you here?”
“Ah! We’d better get moving. I met your mother downstairs as I was coming in the front door. We got chatting, and then she very kindly invited me to lunch and asked if I’d let you know once I’d got up here. She thought it a good idea to meet up, as we’re to be neighbours. Only we’re running a little late now.”
“Right. I’ll get my shoes.” I walked back towards my bedroom, conscious of his eyes on my back. Although possibly a decade older than I was, he was still devilishly good-looking. His general manner came across as self-assured and polite, but at the same time he made me feel kind of edgy and definitely self-conscious. I remembered the open door the other night, too.
When I returned, he was studying the pictures and photographs I had hanging in the hallway. I had quite a collection, and the hall seemed the perfect place to group them. In the centre was an assembly of portraits, which my mother had taken before her retirement. In her day, Mum had been a photographer and excelled in catching unusual poses of actresses, both well-known and lesser known.
Timothy Coleman was engrossed in one particular study and turned to me with a frown. “I noticed a similar collection in my own apartment, smaller in comparison, but obviously the same photographer. They’re good, but what’s the connection?”
I joined him and saw he was studying a portrait of a very young actress about whom I knew nothing other than she had played at the local Yvonne Arnaud theatre only once, according to my father.
“I’m sorry, but I don’t remember her name. You’ll have to ask my mother. She’s the photographer in the family. She specialised in photos of up-and-coming actresses before she retired.”
“I can see that now. I recognise quite a few of the more well-known thespians. Was there any reason they’re all women and, I see, dark-haired?”
“Are they? Um, maybe it’s because they’re in black and white. You can’t tell what their real hair colour is. Mum’s always said she preferred black and white to colour photographs because there’s more depth to them. As I said, she specialised in actresses’ portraits, but I’ve no idea if she only shot dark-haired ones. I do know it’s my dad’s favourite hair colour. Funny, but I’ve never thought about it before.”
He took one last lingering look at them before stepping back, a tight expression on his face. There was an awkward moment as I thought he was about to say something else, but he remained silent.
I summoned up a bright smile. “Shall we go down then?”
He hesitated, and his reluctance to leave the photographs got me wondering. Who was this puzzling man who turned up early to take possession of his tenancy and seemed so interested in Mum’s pictures?
“Was your mother famous?” he asked as we walked downstairs.
“Fairly well-known in her day, I think. Most of her career was before I was born. Once I came along, she had me to think about and only took commissions on an ad-hoc basis.”
During lunch, I studied the stranger as he sat and conversed easily with my mother. His manner was polite and ultra-confident, smiling and nodding at the two of us, and as I listened, I realised he casually turned all conversation topics away from himself and on to Mum.
“Ella was showing me your photographs before lunch. I recognised them from the ones you’ve put in my apartment. Funny, I never noticed them before when I first looked round the place. You have quite a gift, if that’s not too presumptuous an observation. Have you kept up your photographic interest?”
Mum’s face dimpled with pleasure, and she looked very pretty and slightly flustered as she acknowledged the compliment. “Thank you, Tim. That’s very kind of you to say so. I decided to put the photographs in your apartment only a few days before you arrived. I thought they added something to a rather large blank wall. I tend to only dabble in photography these days. There’s so much reliance on electronic gadgets and photo-shopped shots now. I’ve never really taken to any of that, and I’m far too old to bother to learn.”
Tim nodded. “You’re not old at all, but I do understand what you mean. All the same, your study of actresses is amazing. Some of the shots are truly beautiful. But can I ask why?”
Mum frowned. “Why what?”
“Why just actresses? And dark-haired ones too.”
She laughed. “I drifted into it. When Ella’s father and I first married, he persuaded me to enter a photographic competition for budding new photographers. He was always interested in the arts and suggested young actresses would make a good subject. I could follow them through their careers as they progressed. Anyway, with the Yvonne Arnaud theatre here in Guildford and his membership of the theatre club, I had a never-ending supply of subject matter. I entered the competition and, to my delight, won. Colin insisted it was my lucky break…actually more than luck, he said. He said it was fate and I ought to keep it up, so I did. I found a niche and made a name for myself back then.”
Tim looked thoughtful for a moment before replying. “Interesting. So it was your husband’s influence? Are there any actresses in your family?”
There was a slight hesitation before Mum answered. “Yes, he’s always been keen on the arts, especially the theatre. He never misses a new play when it comes to Guildford, and, no, there are no actresses in our family. More salad?”
Tim paused and glanced at the clock on the mantelpiece. “Thank you. Everything was delicious, but I won’t have anything else, if you don’t mind. I’ve had more than enough, and I have an appointment in half an hour. Would you think me rude if I left, as I still have one or two things to do upstairs first?”
After he had gone, I helped Mum clear the table and load the dishwasher. She wiped over the worktops and turned to me with a saucy beam. “What a nice young man. I did like him, and he seemed to take a bit of a shine to you. He came across as very polite and easy to talk to. It’s a shame your father had to go up to London… he would’ve enjoyed getting to know him.”
I agreed how well-mannered Tim had been but kept my other and more private thoughts to myself. Timothy Coleman acted in a friendly and self-confident manner but, surprisingly, hadn’t divulged anything personal in the short hour he was with us. He seemed more interested in Mum’s photographs. A strange man in some ways, I decided. My fanciful mind wondered if he was hiding something and why he seemed so interested in a collection of photos.
It was odd, though, and Mum was right. Even though we had only just met, I felt inexplicably drawn to him, and I told myself it had nothing to do with his easy-going charm or his dark good looks. Whatever the attraction, maybe it was just pure mystery, but it made me determined to find out more.
Chapter Nine - Ella
After lunch, back in my apartment, I flicked on the television to see if there was any further update on the murder. The newscaster stated that the Guildford police had opened new chains of enquiries after someone had come forward with a vague description of the killer.
Male, under forty, tall and rangy and possibly medium or dark-haired … It sounded like the witness couldn’t be sure.
I shook my head in frustration. That narrowed it down just a tad. The hair colour wasn’t much help, as fifty percent of men in England had medium-brown hair and twenty percent were dark-haired. I decided it must be hellishly frustrating being in the police force. Michael often complained about reams of paper
work and other mundane tasks he had to carry out every day. But on the strength of what I had just heard, I couldn’t see them nabbing anyone in a hurry. It was almost laughable; most of the men I knew were medium- to dark-haired; Liam McAllister and Alex from the hospital immediately sprang to mind, although Liam’s hair was very dark with russet overtones. Even my father was dark-haired, albeit with a touch of grey at the temples.
My thoughts turned fondly to my father. When I was younger, I thought it mighty strange that he always seemed obsessed with actresses. He thought nothing of going to see a production more than once if one of the ladies captured his attention. When I was older, I summoned up the courage to ask my mother what his fascination was, and I was shocked by her answer. She ensured the door to the kitchen was closed and Dad nowhere in sight before she explained.
“It’s a sad story, really, but one heard a hundred times over where our generation is concerned,” she said as she removed her apron and sat down at the kitchen table. Her expression was thoughtful as she poured us both a cup of tea and then replaced the tea cosy over the pot. “You never knew your grandmother, your father’s mother I mean, not Granny.” She stopped and sighed before continuing.
“Your other grandmother was an actress…not an especially good one but outstandingly beautiful, and apparently had a rather frivolous nature—gayness we would’ve called it back then. I never met her, and your father has just one photograph as a memory of her.”
“But what happened?” a young me of fourteen asked in awe, sensing a sensational if troubled story.
“Leonora was young, eighteen I believe, and a rising star in the theatre. Her real name was Annie Doll, but she used Leonora as her stage name, as it sounded more theatrical. She’d just landed a good part in a play and was determined she was going places. And she might have had she not fallen pregnant. She kept her pregnancy quiet and carried on with her theatre role until she couldn’t keep it a secret anymore. Once the bump became noticeable, she was quietly asked to leave.”
The Green Room Page 4
